Shutter Release
by Crickette78
Summary: A slight AU where John is a Forensic Photographer and meets Sherlock Holmes at a crime scene. Johnlock
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Cloud 8

The gloomy clouds that had punctuated Sherlock's mood all day decided at that very moment to let go, unleashing a chilly deluge. The vibration of the brass door knocker clanking into the plate as he slammed the door set his teeth on edge.

He muttered a curse under his breath as he waved down a cab and climbed in. If he was lucky, Anderson had managed pictures of the crime scene before the torrential rain ruined likelihood of Anderson being competent was, in Sherlock's opinion, plus or minus 32.7%

Almost a week of tedious boredom had left Sherlock exhausted and amped at the same time. The drive to the crime scene felt like pins and needles along the inside of Sherlock's brain. This case had intrigued him from the moment he received Lestrade's text. His mind, now fixed on the details, stretched cautiously. Much like a professional athlete prepared for a game.

The game was on. The rain be damned.

When John found himself back in London after his injury and subsequent honourable discharge, he knew that he didn't want to be a doctor. He had been a trained battle surgeon. Now, due to the shoulder wound that sent him home, he could hope for a spot in a general practice or locum work. With the knowledge of talent lost to him because of the intermittent tremor in his hand came a crushing depression, knowing that chapter of his life was finished.

He saw a therapist who did little for him. Ella told him to pursue his hobbies. Start a blog, or perhaps take photography classes.

On the day that John left for basic training, his sister Harry had given him a digital camera; she muttered something about having a hobby besides shagging. She paused,swept her Watson golden blonde hair from her forehead, and dug for something more to say.

"Use the camera to look for the beauty, so it's not always about war and blood."

He had accepted the gift with a quick kiss on her cheek and forgot about it.

That is, until his third week in Afghanistan, when the sunset had turned the sky into fire. After that, he always had his camera with him and he always managed to capture pictures that people had visceral reactions to. Several of his prints managed to make rounds on the base. Officers and medical staff said the pictures helped when nothing else would; the bleakness of what they were doing was somehow alleviated when John captured something beautiful on film.

So John begrudgingly listened to Ella, his therapist, and started a blog to help acclimate him to civilian life. He decided to write about photography. His first few posts were very brief, as he felt nervous and exposed. Then he read a comment from Mike Stamford, who had been a classmate at Bart's.

" _ **These picture's are amazing John! Is this your new career? Bloody fantastic! We should get coffee sometime. No pictures, though, I got fat! Ha, ha."**_

John's anxiety slowly dimmed, and he started to wonder if he _could_ make it into a career. He put together a portfolio.

He applied for several jobs, not expecting to get any of them. When he received the call from The Metropolitan Police, he assumed Colonel Moran had something to do with it. He was the best reference on his CV. He went to the interview expecting nothing. His portfolio, after all, was full of beautiful moments stolen while he fought the endless stream of bodies he could barely patch up, and a couple of interesting scenic shots he'd taken since returning to London.

He left the interview with a job that paid barely better than his pension, but the pain in his leg had dulled. He tempered the excitement he felt with a solemness that seemed appropriate for a Forensic Photographer.

It was at his sixth crime scene that he met Sherlock Holmes.

John stood behind his car, the boot open as he selected the items he would need. After three unforeseen trips back to his flat, he learned to pack what he'd need in his car before he left.

He looked up at a sky filled with heavy, gunmetal grey clouds. He would take as many pictures as he could before the sky dumped a bucket of piss all over them. He carried two cameras with him at all times—a department-issued digital camera, and his old Nikon that took 35mm film. Right now, the Nikon was packed in his gear bag. If he were going to beat the rain, he'd have to leave the bag and just take as many snaps as he could.

He slammed the boot shut and walked towards the crowd of people, the police tape bright against the mouldering mason work of the old apartment buildings. John took a few pictures of the mouth of the alleyway. A few close ups of the rusted fire escapes. The lights on the police cars made his flash useless. He checked the pictures on the camera's small screen and with a little huff of annoyance, ducked under the white and blue tape.

When John worked, he tended to see everything through the lens of his camera, looking up only to find things to shoot. It hadn't started to rain, but already the moisture was in the air. It gave the old bricks a sheen that looked slimy.

John took pictures of the ground, the skips, and then he saw it. A smear of crimson and the shape of a boot print. He knelt and took a close up. He lowered the camera and looked at the scene before him. One of the victims lay on her back, her robe spread around her like terry cloth wings. The material was white in places, but as he knelt, John watched the red seep into those spaces. The other body, John couldn't accurately pinpoint the sex from his location. It had been hacked into pieces and strung about the alleyway. He could see no pattern to the gruesome jigsaw puzzle.

He stood, his leg aching from the cold and from the metallic scent that grew stronger the closer he worked to the bodies. John quickly took as many pictures as he could. He felt the tightening in his shoulder and knew that the rain would hit any moment. The dismembered body was a male; John could tell by the gleaming pelvic bone.

John finished taking pictures of the scene. Since the rain would destroy evidence, he decided to keep going. He went over to the DI who stood just to the outside of the parameter, holding a cup of coffee. John could tell the man was overworked by the tiredness that surrounded his eyes. His grey hair stuck up in odd places.

"Oi, Watson! We have a cuppa over here for you. It's getting bloody colder by the minute."

Lestrade held out another paper cup. His gaze darted around looking for a place to rest. He wore a half smile that didn't meet his eyes, but John could tell the DI didn't miss much. He accepted the paper cup of bitter coffee.

"Did you see that game? Worcester was murdered, I felt like we should be investigating that pitch." Lestrade gestured with his cup as he spoke.

Although he had never worked with DI Lestrade before, John immediately found him to be a decent bloke who knew his rugby.

As John and DI Lestrade chatted idly about sports scores, another man joined them. He wore head to toe coveralls. The blue paper made the grisly scene seem comical. No one else had donned the paper coveralls. John hadn't even seen where they were, so he suspected that this man brought them with him.

"I'm the Forensics on this scene. My name's Philip Anderson." His voice was nasally and he didn't offer to shake hands. John watched Anderson give him a quick once over and determine that he wasn't a person of importance.

"Make sure you don't touch anything. The Freak will be here in a mo, and he'll know if you do," Anderson informed him. He curled his lip back, as if he had stuck his nose into one of the overflowing skips.

"The Freak?"

John crept around the other man to capture a few more shots of the alleyway. He checked his camera and felt safe with the number of snaps he'd obtained of the victims. He started to take pictures of the buildings. He noticed a chunk of hair and skin on the brick about fifteen feet off the ground. He zoomed in and took shots of it from several angles. John opened his mouth to point it out to Anderson, but the tall man cut him off.

"Lestrade called him in, although we don't need him. He's a posh know-it-all. He does this trick where he can tell you what you had for lunch, that kind of nonsense. Just wait until you meet him. You'll see."

Anderson watched a woman who was conferring with Lestrade. He puffed up his chest and strolled off to chat with her. She dressed like a woman who was trying to dress like a man. Everything about her was all business except the look on her face when Anderson approached her. The two stood near the front of the alley, both leant in a little when they spoke to each other. He snapped a few photos of them. Their body language, the way they stood, how she tilted her head up and gave him a sly secret smile made John look away.

"Totally shagging." John's nose scrunched up in mock disgust. He felt the first few icy drops of water on the back of his neck, sliding down into his jumper.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag to cover the camera, a trick he learned in Afghanistan to keep sand out.

The rain went from a light misting to an ugly downpour in a matter of moments. John debated wrapping it up and leaving.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement at the mouth of the alley and turned toward it. The silhouette of a man paused there; he wore a long overcoat and the collar was popped up to keep out the rain. John snapped a picture of him, then another as he came closer, struck by the man's appearance. His hair hung in wet, limp curls, and he couldn't tell if they were black or dark brown. His pale features were made paler by the dark hair that framed it. John had just noticed this man's unusual eyes when he spoke.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

The voice that rumbled out did not match the body in John's opinion. This man was long and lean, almost lanky, and the voice was a rich baritone, deep and molten.

"Excuse me?" John blinked for a moment, not understanding. His body automatically turned, and he limped slightly as he closed the distance between them. John stuck his camera into his jacket to give it more shelter.

The man's glowing green-blue eyes followed his motions carefully.

"This is tedious. Please tell me you obtained photographs of the scene before it began to rain."

John watched the tall man jerk away from him and, it seemed, scan everything at once. He wasn't sure if this man could contain the energy he was exuding. The man took out a small magnifying glass and began to look at what seemed like trivial things. His soaking wet coat made snapping sounds as he whipped around cataloguing everything.

"Yeah, I mean, I took as many as I could. Who are you?" John was drenched, his clothing was icy cold and hanging on him. His jumper was no doubt permanently stretched out due to the weight of the water. He didn't care; he was caught in the gravity of this man. It felt like a surge of adrenaline. He was lightheaded from it.

"Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective." Those bright eyes left the scene and looked John over. It made him fiddle with his wet jumper and glance away. The gaze was too intense for mere mortals, John decided.

"Have anything, Sherlock?" Lestrade pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. He hunched over it a bit to keep it as dry as possible.

"I have 5 —no wait,8— possible scenarios, but I need to see the photographs that…?" Sherlock looked up at John, rolled his eyes, his hand sawing back and forth. John noticed how elegant his hands were. They were large, his fingers long yet graceful.

"John Watson,"

"I need to see the photographs that Dr Watson obtained first." He took two large steps towards John.

"Wait a moment. How do you know I'm a doctor?"

"He's a freak. He does that. Give him a few more minutes and he'll drag up your embarrassing secrets. Isn't that right, Freak? Lestrade, call him off or he'll scare this one off too." The woman from earlier joined them. John pushed down a desire to defend Sherlock.

"Sally, I can suggest some product for your hair if you're going to insist on staying the night at Anderson's house when his wife is away." Sherlock turned his back on her to focus on John. "How long will it take for you to print those pictures? May I get them tonight?"

John looked from Sherlock to Lestrade and back again.

"I usually drop the memory card off at the lab at the Met, and they do the prints. It takes a few days, depending on the backlog."

Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth.

"Days?! Lestrade I need those pictures immediately. The rain and Anderson have ruined this scene."

"I have the equipment at my flat to view them. I can even print some." The words were out of John's mouth before he could stop them. He barely stopped from smacking himself in annoyance. "Or I could email them. I have a department email address." A part of him didn't want that option; he wanted to spend more time with Sherlock.

"We'll go to your flat, straight away. Come on, John." Sherlock grabbed John by the elbow and started to march down the alleyway, splashing water as he went. John just stumbled along beside him.

"Sherlock! You can't just… oh, why do I bother? Hey WATSON! Just show him the pictures, don't print anything and I want that memory card on my desk TOMORROW," Lestrade said.

Sally called after them.

"You don't want the _Freak_ following you home, Watson. He's a psychopath. He gets off on this. He'll probably keep the pictures you took to use later while he's alone." Sally tipped her head towards Sherlock.

"He doesn't have to follow me; we're taking my car. I'll have the card in your office in the morning, Detective Lestrade." John called back as he walked faster to catch up with Sherlock. The man had stopped walking and looked at John with an expression that he couldn't make out.

"Coming?" John asked he motioned to his car.

"Yes." He shook his head briskly and strode toward the car without looking back. When he reached the kerb, he waited for John to unlock the door.

Before John jumped into his car, he heard Sally call after him once again.

"Be careful, Watson,"

John rolled his eyes and got into his car. He leant over and unlocked the door for the other man, who climbed in. They looked at each other for a moment. It should've felt awkward. Instead, John felt a tightening in his gut and that magnetic pull again. He turned away first and started the car.

The ride to John's flat was short. He tried to control his shuddering while he glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock looked out the window, then pulled out his phone and began texting. He sat incredibly still, but John still felt as if the other man was fidgeting. Impatience seemed to radiate from him, and the longer he sat still, the worse it became. John sighed with relief when he spotted his building.

John lead the way. He left his gear bag in the boot, making a mental note to come back for it when the rain took a break.

His flat was minuscule but tidy. John had covered a whole wall with photographs; prints of his time in the army and pictures of London. Sherlock shrugged off his wet coat, and John took it from him to hang up. Sherlock strode towards the wall of photos without a second glance.

"Tea?" John asked, stifling the odd feeling of exposure as he watched Sherlock study his work.

"Please." Sherlock took in each picture in turn. His eyes roamed over them as if he was reading them instead of looking at them.

"I'm going to change and get started. It should only take me a minute to set up."

He went into is room and changed into dry denim and a Frazier's Chorus t-shirt. It was his favourite shirt, his first concert with his first girlfriend. He grabbed a towel for Sherlock.

"Here, you're still soaking. I can give you a jumper or something if you want to change. I'm pretty sure none of my trousers will fit you." John chuckled.

"Hmmm? What? Oh no, I'm fine. These pictures are fantastic. You have an eye for photography." He took the towel from John and went back to the wall, his eyes dancing over the prints as he towelled his hair.

"Thank you," John ignored his developing blush. He went into the kitchen and turned the kettle on.

He had turned his ridiculously large walk in linen closet into a dark room, and that is where he stored his projector. He pulled it out and set it on a small table.

"We can get delivery, and I can start loading up the digital photos while we eat."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and thumbed what appeared to be a few texts.

"Handled. Should be here in about 10 minutes." He sat down on John's small couch to wait.

John's hands curled into fists. He crossed his arms over his chest and peered at the other man.

"You don't even know what I wanted. And how did you know that I was a doctor and in the army? You spouted out all that at the crime scene. Has someone told you about me?"

"Simple. From the pictures on the wall, I can see you were in Afghanistan. I'd wondered. I knew it was a harsh desert climate because of your tan lines and the deep creases at the corners of your eyes. Your eyesight is fine, so it must be from squinting in the sun." He nodded at John's bare arms. "The brown line stops at your wrist, so your arms were covered. Determining you were a doctor was more difficult, and I admit I cheated. I overheard Mike Stamford at Bart's talking about a friend recently back from the war who decided to be a photographer. That was unusual, so I didn't delete it. I put two and two together."

"You guessed," John smiled.

"No, I deduced. It's what I do. I observe. You like Thai food, based on the amount of takeaway menus from the same place stacked neatly by your toaster. There are no little soy sauce packets that people always grab when they order certain dishes, and that shirt has a curry stain, just there." He pointed to the yellow-brown splotch. "So I ordered you curry. Can we now get on with the pictures?" He tapped his feet.

"That was incredible. Really… amazing." John pulled a stool out and felt how short he was, as he climbed to untie the white sheet he had tacked to the ceiling. He descended carefully, subconsciously protecting his leg.

He busied himself removing the memory card from his camera. He put his camera on his desk and pulled his desk chair with him. It only took him a moment to pop the memory card into his projector.

"I like to see them as large as I can to pick out details I want to work with when I print them. I can do this with the negatives too."

He let the projector warm up and went into the kitchen as the kettle beeped to fill up their mugs. There was a soft knock on the door, and John opened it.

A young man stood in the doorway; he had a shock of blue hair and a ring in his nose.

"Here ya go, mate." The man handed John the bag and walked away.

"Doesn't he need money? Who was that?" John brought the food with him.

"He's a friend, and I never have to pay for food from there. I did the owners a favour."

"Do you want a plate or is out of the container alright?" John collected forks and napkins, as well as their tea.

"I don't eat when I'm on a case. That's for you."

"Right then. Here is the remote. The buttons let you go forward or back. Have at it." John watched Sherlock as he took the small black remote. He paced closer to the white sheet, then back. He strode to the left of the sheet and then to the middle of the room, his body blocking the image from the projector. John realised Sherlock was studying every detail of the picture. From corner to corner.

John ate the delicious, piping hot curry while Sherlock Holmes solved the case in five pictures.

"May I borrow your phone to text Gavin?" Sherlock asked, his eyes still trained on the scene before him.

"Sure. Who is Gavin?" John fished it out of his pocket, stood, and handed it to him.

Sherlock just motioned with his hand, John's phone in the other one texting.

"When you print out the photos, make sure you print out this one." He clicked the remote bringing up the wall of the alleyway and the fire escape. "This one." This time, it was a close up of a footprint next to the head of one of the victims.

"I need all of the pictures you took of this area. Anderson missed that." He pointed to a close-up of the hair and skin stuck to the bricks.

"But this picture explains what happened." Sherlock clicked the remote, and a pile of light grey concrete appeared.

"That is just a bunch of concrete I found interesting. I took those to study the contrast. I like old buildings." John felt silly saying that.

"This isn't just concrete. It's part of the moulding around the windows of this building." Sherlock motioned to the wall in the picture. "We need to go back and look at them. Lestrade will meet us. Defenestration is the cause of death for this victim." He pointed to a body in another photo. "The second was staged to confuse us. That building is privately owned, and I suspect the building developer hired someone to scare the tenants." Sherlock went to the door.

"We?" John's eyes widened, and he licked his lips. "You got all of that from my pictures?"

"Yes, we. Problem? You have an excellent eye. Bring your camera."

"No. No problem." John stood, put his curry leftovers into the fridge and grabbed his well-worn leather jacket and digital camera. "Let's go." He smiled at the taller man.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. Then a slow smile tipped his lips.

The next day, John wrote a blog about the moulding and how it was the landlord. He left out many of the grislier details, instead focusing on the brilliant deductions of the Consulting Detective.

Anderson was the first from the MET to comment. He asked what defenestration meant.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

London Calling

The dust was suspended in the sunlight that filtered through the window at Baker Street. Sherlock watched it with a critical eye. Five days without a case. Three days since he last froze a set of phalanges. He had tried to remove just the fingerprint to test if it was possible to leave someone else's prints at the scene of a crime. It was. However, not easy and unlikely a common criminal would go to such extreme measures. Sherlock filed it away, along with ideas for doing the same thing without the hassle. Next time his brother came for an unwelcome "visit" he'd steal the git's fingerprints off his tea cup and test his theories.

Sherlock reclined on the couch, his toes pressing into the leather armrest, his eyes never leaving the dust motes. He formulated figures to calculate the rate of descent, how long it took for the dust to collect, and catalogued everything in his mind palace for future reference.

"Sherlock. Get up. I need you to come look at this." Greg's voice sounded far away. Sherlock turned and looked out of the door marked B Street, and willed himself to leave his mind palace.

"What is it, Lestrade? I'm busy." Sherlock raised his head and peered at his brother-in-law. Greg stood at the mantel. He lifted Sherlock's skull and looked inside. Then he carefully put it back and turned to address the prone man on the couch.

"Locked door murder. Abandoned manor in Sussex. Come look at it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Lestrade. "As if I'd hide drugs there _again_. Who's working the scene?" Sherlock brought up the image of John, sitting on his couch eating curry while he combed over his photographs. He felt heat in his cheeks recalling how John had praised him.

"Anderson is on call," Greg answered, and thumbed a text on his phone. Sherlock could tell by the way Greg's nose scrunched up that he was texting Donovan.

"Anderson won't work with me. He's a blundering buffoon." Sherlock uncurled his long legs and stretched. "I want John Watson. He's not a complete idiot."

"Watson? Not a complete idiot? High praise indeed. I don't know if he's on today. He's just pictures, Sherlock. It won't change if Anderson is there or not." Greg's thumb swept across his phone, checking his duty roster. "He's off today."

"I won't go unless he's the forensic photographer." Sherlock stood up and dropped his blue dressing gown off his shoulders into a heap of satin on the floor.

"Fine, but you'll owe me one. Hell, you'll owe John one, too. Poor bastard can't get a day off. Don't make this a habit Sherlock. I'm stumped, or I wouldn't indulge you."

"I won't ride with you. I'll follow behind in a cab. Text me the address."

Sherlock strode into his room and slammed the door. He heard nothing for a moment, then a long sigh and a text alert. Finally, the door shut and he heard Lestrade's steps going down the stairs.

Sherlock decided on a deep blue silk shirt to go with his perfectly tailored black trousers. He didn't stop to ponder why he put in so much effort.

"You've been requested as the Forensic Photographer. The crime scene is in Sussex." The voice on the other end of the line sounded bored.

"Requested by whom? It's my day off." John looked around, as if to verify that he stood in the middle of Regent Park. It was a beautiful day. A few white clouds moved slowly across the expanse of a cobalt sky. The breeze through the park cut the heat of the sun, and John had begun to fill a roll of film. He'd already spent some time with the roses in the Queen Mary Garden. He'd planned to have lunch at one of the kiosks. It appeared that would have to wait for another day.

"DI Lestrade. It's a murder investigation." The woman sighed. "Will you make it?" He heard a small grunt of annoyance.

"Yes, I'll come in and pick up the paperwork." John hung up and hoped he wouldn't have to work with Anderson. He couldn't stand that guy.

The rolling hills of wild grass John drove past were overgrown, but lush and green. A grand manor came into view just as he crested the hill. He followed the small road and beheld what was clearly the crime scene. The line of police cars and emergency vehicles seemed foreign in the grand circular driveway in front of the manor. He parked behind the last car and grabbed his gear from the boot. He peered up at the facade of the building, still striking even with the damage of neglect. He slung his gear bag over his right shoulder.

John had decided to forego stopping by his flat to change and now regretted it. He looked down at his scruffy trainers, jeans, and vintage Clash T-shirt. He rearranged his gear bag and hurried up the steps, waving his ID at the copper who stood in front of one of the stately columns. John learned early on just to follow the ebb and flow of people at crime scenes.

He dug into the side pocket of his bag for an unopened memory card, peeled it out of its packaging, and slotted it into the digital camera.

The first floor of the building had almost no glass left in the windows. The white of the outer walls was grey-washed in the sunshine. The door, when he stepped through it, appeared to have been kicked off the hinges. There was spray paint all over the place. The usual 'Little Roy loves Dick', and other juvenile prose was scribbled about the walls from the floor to about 6 feet up. Above that, there were clean stretches of ornate wallpaper that stuck in lines of old glue but hung in tatters elsewhere. John made a mental note to come back and take pictures of this place another day, if he could get permission. He'd love to capture the dichotomy of the modern graffiti and 19th-century luxury. John looked through the lens of his camera and snapped a few practice pictures. The crumbling staircase, the rainbow of spray paint splashed about.

Behind the staircase, two people stood in conversation. John recognised Lestrade, who looked up as John approached.

"Oi, over here mate!" DI Lestrade motioned him over. "Sorry for calling you in, I need you to photograph the scene. Sherlock insists you're the only one who's capable of doing it."

Lestrade held a cup that John recognised from the kiosk outside of New Scotland Yard. As he passed, the DI raised it in a mock toast, sending a wave of foul, strong coffee odour in his direction.

Sherlock Holmes had asked for him. He wasn't as annoyed to be called in on his day off, anymore. John's small smile hid behind the camera he used as a shield.

He took a picture of the sliding panel that had been forced open and moved around the cluster of people, further into the room.

The rest of the manor held nothing as far as John could see. Nothing besides graffiti and debris. The hidden room beneath the stairs contained a bookcase that spanned the length of the chamber, with books still lining its shelves. The glass was still mostly intact on the doors. Dust lay thick everywhere.

John surveyed the room with a critical eye. A dead man sat at a table, books open and scattered around him. Anderson stood across from the body, clad in his ridiculous paper outfit holding a book, which he idly flipped through. John's face gave an involuntary spasm of disgust as Anderson licked his finger and turned a page.

"Watson. What happened to King? He was supposed to take film." Anderson narrowed his eyes and snapped the book closed, tossing it to the floor. John could see the light square of clean table where the book had been.

"I don't know about King, but are you supposed to move anything before Sherlock gets here?"

John took a picture of the table and the book on the floor. Then, to annoy the man who tried to loom over him, John snapped a picture of Anderson. The paper clad man rolled his eyes and left the room with an overdramatic sigh.

With the room to himself, finally, John set to work. There was a beautiful Tiffany chandelier, the colours dulled by a layer of filth. He avoided the dead man and kept taking pictures of the chandelier.

"I'm curious as to what evidence one would find on the ceiling, Doctor Watson."

The rumbling baritone voice in his right ear made John jump.

"You're a bloody cat! I didn't hear anyone come back in." He laughed and exhaled a smile that made his eyes crinkle.

"What is your opinion of cause of death, Doctor?" Sherlock tilted his head towards John.

As John edged around the man, his shoes crunched on something and he looked down at the carpet. Scattered like jewels were fragments of glass all cut in different shapes. The skeletal lead shade of a Tiffany lamp lay on its side, and the base of the lamp was misshapen.

The back of the man's head was caved in, what appeared to be two parallel concave wounds that matched the lamp base. John fought the urge to check for a pulse. He took several shots of the table, then close ups of disturbances in the dust.

"He died of blunt force trauma. At least two hits with that lamp base to the occiput." He pointed to the spots, then took several pictures of the lamp and the dead man's body where he lay.

"What else do you see?"

Sherlock knelt and picked up a piece of Tiffany glass. He examined it carefully, then looked up at John. He leapt to his feet. John noticed him pocketing the shard of glass.

"He was caught off guard. Either he knew the person or he didn't hear them. I doubt the latter because the room is secret. He'd see and hear someone coming in." John moved out and away from the body as he spoke, taking pictures of the entire scene.

"I've been here for three minutes and twenty-seven seconds. I've solved the case. Barely a 3. Not worth leaving my experiments." Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, gazing at John. The detective held him with his curious eyes.

John couldn't decide what colour they were. He saw blues, greens and another colour that wasn't brown exactly but wasn't tawny either. He struggled not to look away first, even as his cheeks warmed. But he did look down, noticing the blue of Sherlock's shirt made his eyes seem more celestial. John met his gaze and felt like he was looking into the remnants of a supernova.

"You were not due to be into work today. I'm sorry they called you." Sherlock's lip curled up on one side. "Travel back to London with me. You can look at my flat. Central London, nice location."

John's mouth gaped open for a moment before he closed it with a snap.

"You can't afford London, not on a salary from the Met and I could use a flatmate and assistant. I've spoken with the landlady and you can use the downstairs flat as a darkroom until she rents it out. That will never happen, the room gets practically no natural light, but there you are." Sherlock drew back as he finished blurting out his deductions. His eyes had been quick as lightning as he spoke; they now narrowed down to the mess on the floor.

"Wait, did you just ask me to move in with you?" John frowned and glanced down at his shoes. They were both standing on the remains of books and glittering shards of glass. John shuffled his foot to knock a piece of bluish green glass off the book.

Without looking up, Sherlock replied. "Obviously."

John waited a beat, then another. Sherlock shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again. Amusement bubbled in John's chest, and he smiled at Sherlock. He could feel confusion and excitement humming across his skin, prickling the little hairs on his arms.

Sherlock pushed his hand into a pocket of his coat and pulled out his phone. When he spoke, his tone was flat. "We really must leave. I need to be back in London to go to an auction for rare books. You can change before we go. I'm not sure...," he looked John up and down, "London Calling?... is appropriate for where we're going."

Sherlock turned around and strode to the door without waiting for John or looking back to see if he was following.

"I'll text you, George. I need to see John's photos. I can tell Anderson walked in here and breathed on everything." He popped the collar on his Belstaff.

At the sound of his name, Anderson strolled over with his shoulders back and head up and stood next to Lestrade. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, and John fought the urge to tell everyone present how careless the man had been with possible evidence.

"It's Greg, Sherlock. I've always been Greg. Remember, when your brother and I got married? It was Greg then, too." Lestrade sighed and shook his head.

"You're married to his brother?" John tried to imagine what a sibling to the man in front of him would resemble.

"Exactly, Watson. It's nepotism in the workplace. It's the only reason he brings this insufferable—"

Anderson was gearing up for a well-rehearsed stream of dialogue. John held up his hand and interrupted him.

"He wasn't the one licking his fingers after he touched the body and tossing evidence around as if the scene was cleared."

Greg uttered a noise from the back of this throat and ran a hand through his hair. He turned his attention to Anderson, pulling him by the paper encased arm to the side to talk in hushed but angry tones.

"We need to leave, John. I need to see those pictures." Sherlock went back to his phone.

"Wait, you said you solved it. Why do you need to see—"

"I did solve it. We're going to see a suspect to be sure. Come, John, do keep up." Sherlock jogged down the front steps to John's car.

John pulled his keys out and clicked the remote to unlock the car. He dumped his gear in the backseat haphazardly. He climbed behind the wheel as Sherlock made himself comfortable next to him.

"We'll go to the flat straightaway." Sherlock glanced around the car, then looked back to his phone. His thumbs flew across the keyboard.

"I thought you said I needed to change?"

John turned the radio on. He liked music when he did most things. Sherlock changed the channel, stopping when he found classical music. John hid his brief annoyance by gripping the steering wheel and staring forward.

"You don't own a tux, and you'll need one. I'm having one delivered. It should be there before we are."

"Wait, a tux?" John glanced over at Sherlock.

"Yes. I hate repeating myself." Sherlock nodded toward the windscreen. "Watch the road, John."

He smirked. John directed his attention back to the rutted track that led out of the hills, though he did steal an occasional peek at the man sitting beside him.

They both leant against the downstairs entryway wall. John's tux had fared much better than Sherlock's. The detective was missing his tie, the top two buttons, and was covered in enough fish scales that John thought perhaps he could be a merman.

The last six hours felt like a blur. They'd gone to the silent book auction and Sherlock had declared the Auctioneer a murderer. The man responded by throwing a book at him and taking off. They chased the man over rooftops and through the back alleys of London. John felt lost on several occasions, but he just followed the consulting detective in front of him.

They ended up in the old Elektra Fish Market. John ran past stall after stall of dead eyed fish staring as he slipped and skipped in the expensive Oxfords that came with his tux. The concrete floors were slick with water and fish blood. Rainbow coloured fish scales seemed to float in the briny scented air as the other workers cleaned their daily catches. John felt the icy chill of misted water several times as he dodged carts, trolleys, and handcarts.

It turned out the Auctioneer had a partner who was 6'4", incredibly ripped, and a fishmonger. He was in the process of preparing to gut Sherlock on a bed of crushed ice and fish when John shot the man to save Sherlock.

John pondered the last time he had felt so alive and came up with vague memories of uni before he went into the army. Following his instincts, as he had most of his life, he agreed to share a flat with the lanky detective.

John felt more at home chasing Sherlock then at any time in the last few months. Whatever doubts he had, he decided to ignore them. He didn't have a lease to worry about, so he could move out straight away.

John might also admit, if only to himself, that he felt an attraction to the enigmatic git.

He sent his sister a text, letting her know he would finally be able to get the rest of his pre-war things from her garage. Hopefully, he wouldn't have to stay long and listen to her complain about her ex.

"I play the violin at odd hours and sometimes I don't speak for days," Sherlock graced John with a small smile.

"Sometimes I go into my darkroom for hours. I like to listen to vinyl records and not be bothered," John replied with a slight smile of his own. He licked his lips. "Is it always like this for you? Tuxedos, foot chases across London. You hit a man with a red snapper." John laughed. "You smell like a fish." John wiped tears that had begun to collect at the corner of his eyes.

"You're the one who shot that fishmonger, John. And I do not smell like a fish." Sherlock grinned. "Are you alright? You did kill a man tonight."

"Yes, I am. He was a horrible fishmonger. Did you see those prices for trout?" Both men erupted into fresh laughter.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Comfortably Numb

He hadn't a case in over a week. Sherlock could feel his brain matter slowly atrophying. The fissures were becoming shallow, the gyri unfolding. Soon it would resemble Anderson's, smooth with occasional sulci to break the monotony.

John was useless; currently downstairs in C, developing film. Sherlock stood at the rail and glared down at the red handkerchief on the knob. John had taken to hanging it there after Sherlock barged in and ruined some prints once.

John had announced that morning that he had hidden Sherlock's cigarettes, and Sherlock wanted them back. He debated whether sneaking up the second set of stairs into John's room was worth the trouble. Really, if John found him in his room, it would be his own fault.

Sherlock nodded and climbed the stairs as quietly as possible.

It had been three months since the contradictory ex- army doctor moved in. Sherlock had worried his attraction would complicate his life with tedium. But that hadn't been the case at all. John was far from dull.

He opened the door to John's room, careful not to let the hinge creak. It usually made a noise around 76.3 degrees and Sherlock wanted to avoid that. He slipped inside silently, his thoughts still on the many layers of John Watson. A doctor trained to heal, he was also a veteran who had killed to save Sherlock's life. Inherently moral, yet able to see past it for loyalty.

Sherlock looked around the attic bedroom and smiled. The bed sat in a sunbeam, perfectly made. The desk by the window, however, was a site of organised chaos; pictures, negatives, and rolls of film scattered around a laptop.

One whole wall was nothing but shelves filled with vinyl records, in alphabetical order by band and then further indexed by type of music and year. Each album was held in plastic. As a man with a complicated sock index, Sherlock was greatly impressed.

One album stuck out farther than the others. The lack of a plastic cover indicated a new purchase. Sherlock pulled it from the shelf.

The sleeve was black and completely blank, front and back. Sherlock let the album slide out onto his palm. ' _Sherlock Holmes Consulting Detective'_ was written in gold script on a dark brown label. The effect was very Victorian, tastefully old-fashioned. Curiosity overrode his better judgment. He took the album with him to his room and shut the door, the hunt for his cigarettes forgotten.

Once safely inside, he looked at the record again. Sherlock could almost see his reflection in the inky blackness of the freshly pressed vinyl.

In uni, other students would make mixed tapes and exchange them. It was meant to express sentiment. Sherlock had deemed the whole thing ridiculous. Had John made him a mixed...record? For some reason, that did not seem nearly as childish as it had back then.

However, there remained a problem. The lack of a record player.

Sherlock carefully hid the album in his closet. He ripped the plastic dry cleaning bag off a crisply pressed white shirt and selected a Tom Ford suit, in black. Straightening his cuffs, he checked his reflection in the mirror over the mantel.

He grabbed his phone and wallet and left to find a record player. He was a genius, after all, how hard could it be?

As usual, John was a whirlwind of surprises. Sherlock smiled at the delightful paradox his flatmate had proven to be.

Finding a record player in central London proved to be much more challenging than Sherlock had anticipated. Three hours into his adventure in music, he received a text from his meddlesome brother.

 **What you seek is located on Berwick Street. -MH**

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and scrunched his nose at the nearest CCTV camera. Yet, he went directly to Berwick Street, where he found an independent record store. He was able to purchase a small portable record player that the salesperson assured him had quality sound.

With his new purchase in tow, he made his way out of the store to the narrow two lane road. The skies were filled with grey clouds and a chill of impending rain was in the air. His brother texted him again.

 **You're welcome, brother. -MH**

 **Piss off. -SH**

 **Gift for John? -MH**

 **No, it's mine. -SH**

 **Greg has a broad selection of Count Basie albums. -MH**

 **A nobleman?- SH**

 **American jazz pianist from the 30s. -MH**

 **Not interested. -SH**

Sherlock looked up from his phone and spotted a cab. John often accused him of using witchcraft to get the attention of passing taxis, but really it was the suit. He raised his hand and waved it, nonchalantly. The car stopped at the kerb and Sherlock climbed in.

Now he just needed to sneak the record player past John.

"Hello dear, looking for John?" Mrs Hudson asked as Sherlock stepped out of the cab. She held a small broom and dustpan. Her hand rested on the doorknob.

"Not at all, Mrs Hudson. Is he inside?" Sherlock carefully avoided looking at her and instead studied the detritus in her dustpan.

Perhaps there was an experiment to conduct there, but the record player reminded him he had other projects in the works. Sherlock glanced up and met her kind hazel eyes. He doubted he was fooling her. Still, he would continue, just in case she was having a slow day.

"You just missed him. He was looking rather sharp, too. None of those silly t-shirts he usually wears. He had on a lovely oatmeal jumper. And he didn't smell like any of those chemicals." She waved her hand as if to ward off the smell of developer, and began sweeping the steps again. "I think he must have a date."

Sherlock's stomach twisted in an odd way that he wasn't familiar with. "A date? John?" He accessed information from his mind palace. His flatmate's habits had their own box; he began to sort through them.

John had showered. _**Check.**_

Ugly oatmeal jumper. _**Check.**_

Sherlock sniffed the air. The assault on his olfactory senses caused his nose to wrinkle in disgruntlement.

Wearing cologne that made Sherlock's eyes water. _**Check.**_

John was currently on a date. A surge of irrational sentiment coursed through Sherlock. He had the sudden urge to head upstairs and start a detailed experiment on the corrosive effects of H2SO4 on vinyl.

His mind proceeded to the steps of the scientific method and formed his hypothesis. When he came to the hypothetical conclusion, he knew it would anger John. No longer could Sherlock use the scientific method without stopping at this step and determining if it was a bit not good, and whether John would deem it ill advised. John's reactions were recorded in a special speed sheet he kept on his laptop. The amount of profanity John used correlated directly to the danger to Sherlock's person or the flat.

Melting John's vinyl collection would certainly result in at least an elven curse word string.

Sherlock sighed. It was too risky without more information. Perhaps John had a record he did not care for?

No longer having to conceal his recent purchase, Sherlock bounded up the stairs to the flat. He didn't bother to step over the stupid squeaky 14th step because John wasn't home. The detective decided that dates were stupid, John was an idiot, and sentiment was the most ridiculous thing ever.

John arrived at Baker Street, feeling both exhausted and recharged. His meeting with Sarah had gone much better than he had anticipated and he couldn't wait to surprise Sherlock. He stood on the stairs, listening for him, but heard nothing. If he'd gotten a case, Sherlock would have texted. He checked his phone, in case he had missed any messages.

John had no new alerts.

A humming, jittery feeling he could only call RMAC intuition settled along his shoulders.

He went into his dark room to drop off his film and gear. Sherlock never came in there anymore. John appreciated the space to work, but sometimes when he was holed up he missed the detective and the energy that radiated off of him. He often thought of their first case and how amazing it was to watch Sherlock figure everything out.

"John, dear, is that you?" Mrs Hudson's voice traveled down the short hallway.

"Yes, Mrs Hudson. I was just putting up my gear."

"How was your date? You're home early." She carried in a plate with several bacon sarnies on it. John could smell them and his stomach rumbled.

"Oh, I didn't have a date. I met with someone about showing some of my pictures. Don't tell Sherlock, though; I want to surprise him." He smiled at her. "Is he home? It was dark up there when I got in."

"No, he um... Left. I was going to have you leave these for him. He always comes home famished when he does… this, and I thought I'd pop over to 's for book night." She moved the plate from one hand to another. Then she straightened a stack of film canisters on John's work table.

"Where is he?" He watched her shift her weight from her good hip to her bad hip and back again. She nibbled her bottom lip. "Mrs Hudson?"

"You know how he hates boredom. Sometimes, in the past, he would get into a bit of a scuffle." She fixed the towel that was covering the sandwiches, tracing the vine design on the cloth to avoid looking at John as she spoke.

"Scuffle? Like fighting?" John tried to make sense of what he was hearing.

"I don't know where he goes off to; I've just seen him when he gets home." She tsked.

"I'll take those for you, Mrs Hudson. And I think I'll see what our detective is up to." John grabbed his bag and the plate of sandwiches.

"Be careful, John. He's more sensitive than he lets on, you know." She smiled as she watched him climb the stairs.

John put the sandwiches in the fridge and sent Greg a text asking him if he knew where Sherlock would go to fight.

Upstairs in his room, he changed into black jeans, a black Pink Floyd T-shirt, and black Doc Martens. His phone chimed with a message as he finished lacing up.

 **Come outside -MH**

John tucked his Sig into the back of his jeans, pulled his favourite leather jacket over it, and jogged downstairs. He stopped just long enough to grab his bag.

A sleek black sedan sat at the kerb. John wondered briefly if Mycroft had his cars made so they looked as nondescript as possible.

The door opened, and Mycroft Holmes nodded to him. John got into the car.

They had a routine now. John had lived at Baker Street for almost four months and during that time, Mycroft had kidnapped him twice, followed him three times, and on one random special occasion while John took crime scene pictures in the rain, had offered him his spare umbrella .

"Where is your brother?" John narrowed his eyes at the other man.

"He's at an abandoned warehouse near Whitehall. I'm taking you there." Mycroft handed him a brown envelope.

"What's all this?" The envelope felt thick in his hand.

"It's your false identification, wallet, and two thousand pounds."

"Do I want to know how you were able to get me a fake ID that fast?" John looked at the plastic card. His name tonight was apparently Tobias Gregson. The picture was the same as the one on his passport.

"My brother is currently fighting in an underground boxing club. You need the money to buy entrance. The ID is to cover you, should the police raid. They don't, but one never knows. Sherlock is using a false name as well. He's there as Arthur McMurdo." Mycroft leant back and checked his phone.

"How did you know I would go to him?" John watched the other man's face.

"Call it a hunch, Doctor Watson." He smirked at John.

John couldn't decide if he was nervous or amused.

Apparently, the Holmes brothers could read him like an open book.

Getting into an underground fight club was considerably easier than John thought it would be. He just handed the stack of pounds over, and in he went.

The warehouse was old, and all that remained of it was the foundation and a few walls. The ceiling was long gone, as were most of the upper floors. John could see the night sky from where he stood.

John had gone to war and survived to come home; the sight and sounds of men fighting were not something new. The air was thick with sweat and hints of fear and excitement. John fought the urge to gag. His brain attempted to conjure up the smells of desert sand to lay over the faint coppery smell of blood. He shook his head, sweat beading across his brow. John navigated through the crowd, his short stature second to the air of command he projected.

Tonight, he was Captain Watson again.

The main ring was surrounded by at least 60 men, all screaming and waving money at different bet takers. There was a giant green chalkboard covered in names and figures. John didn't have time for that. Instead, he kept scanning the crowd.

When he found a spot close enough to see the ring, he sucked in a breath. The two men fighting looked like they had each been in a head-on collision. Both of them were around the same height, but one had considerable bulk on the other. The muscular one was lisping, his steps uneven, and his face was so swollen as to be barely human any longer. His opponent had more energy in his step, but he was almost equally bad off.

The crescendo of noise around him amped up as the big one fell and didn't get back up. John fought every urge he had not to rush to check on him. He let out his breath when he saw the man's friends come collect him from the ring. His body was slick with sweat and blood; his head lolled as they dragged him out. The other man was wobbly but left on his own, one of his buddies guiding him through the crowd with a hand on his shoulder.

One of the bookies came into the ring and the cheering quieted, though there was still the dull roar of scores of people talking at once. He announced another set of fighters, but John couldn't make out what he said from where he stood.

It took him seven seconds to recognise his flatmate.

Sherlock wore low-slung black gi pants with drawstrings tied tightly. They displayed the contours of his hips and perfectly defined abs, which glistened with sweat. He had clearly already been in a fight. John could make out the beginning of several bruises decorating his body. The sweat made them appear like watercolour tattoos, hints of purples and dark reds. His nose had bled at some point but wasn't any longer. Dried blood crusted around one of his nostrils. His hair was a riot of dark, shiny, wet curls.

John stared at that pale chest, the defined muscles and dusting of brown hair across Sherlock's pecs. He found the small trail of hair that started below Sherlock's belly-button to be one of the most erotic sights he had ever seen. A smoky curl of adrenaline mixed with lust twisted in his gut.

Sherlock looked feral, a dark and wild thing. John wanted to touch him. To see if he could feel the chaotic energy that he radiated.

Sherlock stretched and nodded towards his opponent. The other man wasn't as tall as the detective, but he was considerably larger. His back was covered with tattoos.

He charged at Sherlock and landed a blow across his ribs with a sickening crunch. Sherlock staggered and John watched as he took in his opponent. Sherlock's piercing gaze dissected the fighter for every possible weakness and collected the data.

John pulled his camera out and snapped several pictures in quick succession. He could mask the horror of watching his friend take a beating on purpose. Holding his camera he was just observing. Without, he wanted to jump in and kill someone for landing a single punch on that exotic face.

He tried to capture the calculating gleam in Sherlock's eyes, the tilt of his head. Even after watching him and how his brain worked for the last several months, it still took John's breath away. He resorted to the 'spray and pray' method of photography.

Each time John looked at Sherlock through the lens of his camera, he became too lost in the fine lines and symmetry. The hard angles and planes knotted with tension. His whole body was poised and ready to strike. He used his hits to the best advantage, never wasting energy. The whole match took less than 2 minutes.

The tattooed man lay face down, but he was still breathing. Sherlock stumbled a bit, clutching his side, but made his way out of the ring under his own steam.

The crowd surged towards the two fighters, some to help the fallen and others to get a better look at the carnage. John fought his way to Sherlock's side, pushing and shoving, using his elbows as needed.

He scanned the detective, looking at every mark and injury. Thankfully, nothing appeared to need immediate attention. His ribs would have to wait until they got back to Baker Street so John could wrap them.

Sherlock moved smoothly but slower than usual, and John caught up with him easily.

Again, he felt the urge to touch the other man, to smell his sweat and taste the trickle of blood that ran down across his clavicle. Sherlock usually smelled like Baker Street, expensive shampoo, tea, and rosin. Right now he smelt like London, of decay, dirt and sweat. He smelt like adrenaline and victory.

"Hello John, enjoy the fight?" Sherlock's voice was raspy but calm.

"Yeah, you should've invited me. I hate gate crashing." He tried to keep his tone light. Sherlock nodded at another man, who handed him an oversized hoodie and trainers. John looked down and saw that his friend's feet were bare.

Sherlock attempted to put on his shoes and flinched. John huffed at the stubborn man and knelt to help him.

"I don't need your assistance, John. I can put on my own shoes." Sherlock hissed and bent to grab his shoe.

"I'm pretty sure you have done a number on your ribs. I'd love it if you'd stay still so I can get you home, and those looked after. No need to puncture a lung now, is there?" John held the shoe out of his reach.

"I'll walk barefoot, then. I. Don't. Need. Your. Help." He limped away, holding his ribs.

"Sherlock, you will stop this right now. I am helping you with these, and we're leaving together. No way you're walking across London barefoot. Not adding gangrene on top of your injuries is high on our list of priorities tonight. God knows what you'll step on just in here." He used his Captain Watson voice and, to his amusement, Sherlock stopped and allowed him to help with his shoes. He didn't say another word.

They left the warehouse together.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

In Your Eyes

London was sleeping and the regular noise of the city was muted as they left the abandoned warehouse. The only sounds were the occasional swish of a distant car and the muffled thud of their steps. John doubted they would find a cab, given the hour, and he resigned himself to walking all the way to Baker Street. The darkness felt thick and oppressive. Making John instinctively search for any sign of light. John looked at the streetlamp and wondered how the area would've looked under gaslight. He shuddered and rubbed his hands together briskly. The usual London mist turned into icy rain. John cursed under his breath and glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

"I wish I had my car. We're never going to get a cab out here." John he cleared his throat. "So what is this all about?"

"What, rain? It's London. The average annual rainfall is approximately 601 millimetres a year." Sherlock stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and kept walking.

"I meant the whole fighting thing." John's leg ached and keeping up with the taller man's strides made it worse than usual.

"We're flatmates, John. I don't need to ask your permission to do anything; you didn't need my permission to go on a date tonight. Stay out of my business and I'll stay out of yours."

John stopped. He cocked his head in confusion.

"Why are both you and Mrs. Hudson under the impression that I was on a date tonight?"

Sherlock stilled and turned to look at John.

"She said you left, wearing your ugly oatmeal jumper. The one you wore when you were dating that obnoxious cocktail waitress."

"Sherlock, I got back from the war less than a year ago. Most of my wardrobe is band t-shirts that I had before I left, and a couple of the jumpers Harry gets me every year for Christmas. I hate shopping for clothes. I hate it. I wore that jumper because it brings me luck. I didn't have a date; I had an… interview, of sorts. I don't usually date someone when I'm interested in someone else." John stuffed his hands into his pockets and started walking again.

"You're leaving your job at the Met?" Sherlock trailed behind John.

"No, this is a different kind of thing. It's a surprise, okay? I wanted to surprise you." John felt his nerves surge, his heart hammering in his throat. He'd said too much.

John stared at the way the falling rain was highlighted by the streetlamp. He pulled out his camera, his body's response second nature. He tried to capture the way the rain glimmered in the light. Holding the camera helped soothe him a bit.

"Who are you interested in?" Sherlock's voice was low. John could feel the other man's intense gaze roaming over him, cataloging any tells that John might have.

John exhaled a tired sigh. "It doesn't matter; they're... involved. Married, for all intents and purposes. Not interested in me. Told me as much once, over dinner."

John's lip quirked, thinking of the conversation at Angelo's. They had gone there after the Murderous Fishmonger Case to celebrate how well the blog post was doing. John had tried to gauge if Sherlock was even interested in men and Sherlock had said he was married to his work.

He turned and aimed the camera at Sherlock. Usually, he couldn't take shots like this. Sherlock didn't stand still long. He'd only ever managed to capture Sherlock in motion. Always moving, like a small hurricane. Except for the few times at the end of a case, when the man would curl up on the couch and fall asleep. Those were John's favorite pictures.

Now, Sherlock stood before him as the rain picked up. It ran in rivulets down his neck. Wet curls framed his face.

John took his picture. Tried to see him through his lens. The way the streetlamp caused the unusual blue-green of his eyes to glow. He caught the smile on Sherlock's face a moment before he felt the hand on his shirt pulling him closer. John lowered his camera just in time, as Sherlock swooped in and kissed him. Sherlock's lips pressed against his firmly, as if he worried John would pull back. Instead, John pressed forward harder, opening his mouth so he could capture that perfect bottom lip. John could taste London as his tongue gently skimmed over that lip. A mixture of sweet rain and bitter blood filled his senses and summed up his flatmate perfectly.

Standing in the middle of the sidewalk would not work for anything that John wanted to do to Sherlock.

Keeping their mouths locked together, John pushed Sherlock back into the mouth of the alley they had just passed. Sherlock pulled back, his eyes flickering the buildings for any CCTV cameras. With a low growl, Sherlock kissed him again. Their tongues met and danced around each other for a moment before John took Sherlock's in his mouth and sucked on it. He ground his hips, looking for friction against Sherlock hard thigh. The taller man leaned back against the wall and pulled John into him.

Sherlock's pants didn't hide his arousal. John took advantage, twisting his pelvis to rub against it. Their kisses became more frantic.

John could smell Sherlock's body, the sweat of the fight, the blood. It was a concentration of their life together. Running through London, the thrill of the chase. It drove John crazy with desire. Sherlock's mouth tasted faintly of copper and something under that, a creamy hint of tea. John pushed his tongue into Sherlock's mouth for more of it. He wanted to know how Sherlock's whole body tasted.

The rain trickled down the back of his neck, under the collar of his jacket. John wondered if Sherlock could see steam from where the icy water touched his heated skin. Sherlock pulled the zip of his jacket down, and thrust his hands under John's shirt to touch skin. John could feel the calloused pads of violinist fingertips cataloguing and memorizing his flesh, leaving warm trails in their wake.

John nudged Sherlock's foot so he could stand between his legs. His hands fumbled with his jacket, pulling it around them both so he could feel closer as he leaned into Sherlock. He felt the whisper of a hiss against his ear as his touch put pressure on Sherlock's ribs.

"Sherlock, we need to get out of this rain. I need to look at your ribs. We both need hot showers." John peppered kisses along Sherlock's jaw as he spoke.

"If we must." He didn't move. He slouched down a little, angling his hips so he could slot John's against his. Their hard cocks met and they both moaned. The pain and pleasure mingled together as John worried briefly that the zipper of his jeans would leave an imprint on his prick.

"I thought you were married to your work, you git." John gently bit Sherlock's lip, sucked on it. He tasted a fresh hint of blood and stopped. He tried to see it in the dim light. .

"I am married to my work. You'll just have to be my mistress. Problem?" Sherlock popped his P and rubbed his nose along John's jaw. John was enjoying the oddity of Sherlock slumped down enough that they were almost face to face. He was surprised by the ease with which Sherlock was holding this position.

"The only problem I have currently is the fact that my bullocks are climbing back into my abdomen." John's phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and shielded it from rain, but couldn't see whose name flashed across the screen.

"Bloody hell, who's calling me this late? John Watson speaking." He leant closer to Sherlock's warmth.

"He's with me. I'll ask him." John held the phone away from his mouth. "Greg says there's been a murder and he needs you to look into it."

Sherlock plucked John's phone out of his hand and held it to his ear.

"What is it, Lestrade? We're busy." Sherlock listened to the frustrated voice on the other end. "A locked door? We're on our way. Text John the address. He has his camera." Sherlock disconnected the call and slipped the phone back into John's inner jacket pocket. The brush of his fingers was enough to raise goosebumps on John's arms.

"It's a closed door murder. Two people are missing their heads." He searched John's face for any hint of disapproval.

"Let's go. Your wife calls. But you're making this up to me when we get back to Baker Street." John shook the water out of his hair and zipped his jacket back up. He quickly shifted his softening cock in jeans. Sherlock reached out and traced the fading outline with his fingertips.

"I intend to, John." With a smirk, Sherlock straightened up and pulled his hoodie down. He stuffed his hands in the front pocket, trying to hide any last evidence of his arousal. They both walked casually back onto the street. John saw the camera across the street move slowly and stay on them. He nudged Sherlock, who looked up and grinned, then gave it the two finger salute.

Sherlock stalked off towards Baker Street without a word and John followed. The rain let up and back to a mere chilly mist.

A black car pulled over to the kerb next to them a few minutes later.

"Well, at least my brother is good for something." Sherlock sighed, opened the door, and climbed in.

"Yeah, we weren't ever going to find a cab at this hour." John slid in beside him, smiling as the heat of the car enveloped him. Anthea didn't look up from her Blackberry. "Thank you for the ride."

She nodded.

"You'll document the scene with the Nikon. I like the pictures better, and I can see things clearer." Sherlock shifted until he was comfortable on the leather seat. John felt him settle so their thighs touched.

"You'll have to okay it with Greg. They like new memory cards and raw files."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John. He shifted and crossed his long legs. John followed the movement and felt a tingling heat that made him forget for a moment he was soaking wet and wearing leather.

"I'll handle it." Sherlock's voice sounded deeper than usual. John resisted the urge to kiss the throat that sex-laden voice came from and wondered if he'd done it on purpose.

John coughed and shifted in his seat. "I have extra film in that side pocket. Want to learn how to load it?" He started to wind the roll that was currently in his camera. He didn't want to taint first kisses with a murder scene.

"Sentiment," Sherlock smiled at him and handed him another roll of film.

"Shut up, you cheeky bastard. Now watch." John loaded his camera and Sherlock watched, his smirk small and mischievous.

The scene was something out of a horror movie. Two bodies, both without heads, laying on their backs, holding hands. However, Sherlock quickly deduced the window had been forced open, something that Anderson had missed. He found the pair of shoe prints confirming that two people had dragged the bodies in and set them up.

It didn't take a doctor to point out the cause of death on one of the bodies. The other was infinitely more odd. It had been embalmed. Both were male, about the same age. The fresh body's only wound was his missing head. The other had all the signs of having been autopsied and buried. One pass around the bodies and Sherlock was climbing out of the window to get soil samples. John's eyes kept creeping back to their hands tangled together. They left for Bart's as soon as Sherlock had his dirt.

The sun was officially up; it had taken an hour to convince Greg that Sherlock needed actual prints of the scene. It also took a huge sulk and Sherlock threatening to call his brother before Greg threw his arms into the air. He had greatly impressed John with the string of swear words he uttered under his breath as he walked away. Some were good enough that John saved them for the next time he lost a battle with the chip and pin machine.

John had three rolls of crime scene film in his pocket. Sherlock urged him to go back to Baker Street to start the developing process, which caused another round of muttering from Greg over procedure. The man had clearly given up for the night.

"Oi! I'm heading back to Baker Street to start this film for you. I'll see you in a bit?" John grabbed his gear bag and shouldered it.

"How long?" Sherlock didn't move, his eyes highlighted by the artificial light of the microscope.

"Should take an hour to develop and then the usual drying time." John pushed Sherlock's tea towards him. Sherlock nodded and smiled, his eyes leaving the microscope for a moment. The beating he had taken earlier was showing. Circles had formed under his eyes, the bruising across his cheekbone was blossoming into a terrific puffy mess. After this case was finished, John resolved to turn both their phones off for at least two days.

"Just come to C, when you get home. I'll be working down there." John laid his hand over Sherlock's and flattened it so he could slide his fingers between the other man's.

"Soon, John." Sherlock went back to his microscope and John left. He was unsure if Sherlock meant he'd be home soon, or if soon meant... other things. Either way, it sent a warm tingle throughout his body.

John stood in the middle of an empty stage, illuminated by flickering gaslight. A sea of faded red seats spanned the space in front of him.

He was completely naked and standing in the anatomical position, relaxed and eyes to the front. The theater doors slammed open and Sherlock strode down the aisle. He wore tailored black trousers with a black dress shirt and a carmine coloured waistcoat in velvet that caught the light and made the stark paleness of Sherlock's complexion glow. John clenched his fists, fighting the urge to reach out and touch it, to test how soft it would feel.

John felt heated drops on his skin. A red rain from a fathomless sky poured down on him. The drops left smears of red across his skin. He looked up expecting to see clouds, but instead it was nothing but a black sea of stars. When he looked down, the stage was gone and he wore his combat fatigues.

"Fuck."

He muttered the expletive under his breath. The ingrained habit of hitching his pack came next. He scanned the terrain, the sweeping landscape empty until he caught sight of a distant mountain. It was covered in blue wildflowers.

Beneath the layers of his subconscious, John knew he was sleeping. That didn't stop his heart from pounding when the shots began to fire.

A wounded man lay screaming in the sand. John threw himself down beside him, intent on saving him. But his pack held nothing but rolls and rolls of negatives. The screaming grew louder and deeper, a rich baritone that rumbled from the injured man's chest.

John couldn't see his face, but he could smell the coppery tang of blood, almost taste it on the tip of his tongue. The blood bubbled up in great gouts and John couldn't stop it. All he had was the film.

"John. Wake up."

"I gotta find something to stop this bleeding." He couldn't find his gloves; he needed them. Infection was a career killer.

The shooting stopped, was replaced by soothing music. It sounded like the first part of _Mercy Street_ by Peter Gabriel. The faceless wounded man disappeared and for an earth-shattering moment, John feared he was alone in purgatory.

"Shhh, John. It's Sherlock. You're in London, and you fell asleep in 221 C. Open your eyes and see for yourself."

Fingers carded through John's hair as he blinked open his eyes. He was laying on the small leather chaise that sat on the opposite wall from his work bench. Sherlock knelt next to him.

"Sherlock." John pulled the other man to him and playfully nipped at Sherlock's cupid bow mouth. He teased his tongue along the seam of those plush lips. He needed to replace the taste of copper with the taste of Sherlock. John wrapped his arms around him. He felt Sherlock wince and stopped.

John gently nudged Sherlock down beside him.

"Fuck. Your ribs." He stood and pulled off Sherlock's hoodie. It seemed strange to see him dressed this way, without his usual suits. John flashed to his dream for a moment.

"You don't happen to have any blood-red velvet waistcoats do you?" John traced the bruising along Sherlock's ribs.

"Waistcoat? You have me confused with my brother. Are the fumes getting to you down here? We can install a fume hood." Sherlock glanced around, as if determining where such a thing should go. Flat C was much smaller than upstairs. It currently held two work benches and a few clothes lines pinned across one length of wall so that John could hang his prints to dry. John had hung a few posters to make it seem less drab.

"No, that's not necessary. It was just in my dream you were wearing one. I just... " John felt foolish. His cheeks burned as sharply focused blue-green eyes roamed over him.

"Tell me about it." Sherlock gingerly stood, his hand holding his ribs. Even while in pain, John could see his feline grace as the other man started to investigate the pictures hanging to dry.

"Not much to tell. I was on stage, you were wearing that, and then I was in Afghanistan, and it was a nightmare. I get them, usually when I'm overly tired." John ran his hands through his hair.

"I turned on your mp3 player when I was trying to wake you up. I deleted if it was safe to wake someone abruptly from a nightmare." He nodded towards John's iPod and speaker dock for a moment.

"It's fine. I love Peter Gabriel." He closed his eyes for a moment to listen to the music. _Don't Give Up_ ended and _In Your Eyes_ began. He took a deep breath and turned back to Sherlock.

John took a step towards Sherlock and watched as he whirled around from the drying photographs to face him. The red light was still on, washing out a lot of the colour in the room. It softened their features and deepened the shadows. John wished he could see the true color of Sherlock's eyes. He stared into them and gently guided Sherlock to a bit of bare wall next to the bench he kept for dry prints.

"I've wanted to do this since I moved in."

John kissed along the planes of Sherlock's chest. He let his lips drag, soft, gentle caresses along the bruises. Sherlock's skin was so smooth against his lips, like running his mouth across silk. When he spotted a rare freckle he pressed his lips harder against it, memorizing where each one was. John could smell the clinging scent of blood and beneath that he could smell Sherlock's arousal, sweet and tantalizing. John licked across a line across Sherlock's collarbone, tasting old sweat and rain.

"Why didn't you?" Sherlock leaned his head back and exhaled a deep sigh, melting against the wall.

"You said you were married to your work. I didn't want to push something you weren't interested in. I like living here. I like working with you." He tugged at the drawstrings of Sherlock's gis.

"What about this interview?" Sherlock's breath changed as John's fingers traced around his waist.

"You want to talk about this now? Because I had other plans."

John pushed Sherlock's trousers and pants slowly down to his thighs, watching as more skin was revealed. John gasped when he saw Sherlock's cock. Even in the red light, Sherlock looked like something made of marble. His long body was perfectly proportioned, the embodiment of da Vinci's ideal man. He had often wondered what Sherlock would look like naked; this surpassed his imagination.

The vee of his hips drew John's eyes towards the perfectly shaped penis that rose from messy riot dark pubic hair. Sherlock's cock was uncut and his foreskin had retracted slightly revealing the plump crown. A pearly bead of pre-come formed at the slit.

John wanted to taste that drop, he licked his lips and wrapped his fingers around that tantalizing length. The skin felt like hot satin against his palm. He folded to his knees, ignoring the old hard wood floor. He stared up at Sherlock, who was looking down at him. His head was still tilted back, the curls more prominent than ever and messy from drying unmanaged. John let his eyes feast on the scene before him. Something about how Sherlock was naked only to mid-thigh made the visual erotic to John.

Sherlock brought his hands to cup either side of John's jaw. John knew that he was memorizing every detail as John placed a kiss on the head of his cock. He slowly rubbed his lips along the velvety skin. Sherlock groaned low in his throat and slid his hands into John's hair, tugging slightly.

John licked his lips to taste the bitter flavor of Sherlock's pre-come. Then he glossed his mouth along Sherlock's shaft. The taste of Sherlock on the tip of his tongue made him moan, a hint of soap and the hot sweetness of Sherlock's skin. He brought his right hand up to cup Sherlock's bullocks, tugging them gently. Sherlock whined. His fingers fisted a handful of John's hair. John wrapped his left hand around the base of Sherlock's cock. His thumb traced the vein that ran the length of the shaft.

"John, please." The baritone voice sounded raspy.

John looked up for a moment and smiled. He took a deep breath, picking Sherlock's scent from the chemicals around them, a mix of sweat, sandalwood, and citrus. Sometimes, while John showered, he would open Sherlock's expensive body wash and smell it. It never smelt right. Something about the way it mixed with Sherlock's own musk was different. Better.

John finally took the head of Sherlock's cock into his mouth and held it there for a moment. The crown was broad and the same thickness as the rest of his shaft. He needed time to adjust to the girth. He could feel his lips stretch to take it. He flicked his tongue to taste the salty pre-come that had collected while he explored. John wanted more. He slowly took more of Sherlock's length into his mouth, groaning as his jaw strained. John sucked softly as he became accustomed to the thickness of Sherlock's cock. Every moan, every noise that he coaxed out of Sherlock made his own cock harder. John ignored it. Everything he had was focused on bringing the other man pleasure.

He pulled back, letting his lips tease the underside of the tip, and then took him deeper, finding a rhythm. When he felt the head of Sherlock's cock against the back of his throat, he relaxed his muscles and swallowed. Sherlock trembled, his cock swelling. John sucked harder and bobbed faster. Each time that John pulled back, he felt the tension humming through Sherlock's body.

"I'm so close, please. I'm so close." Sherlock let go of John's hair and grabbed the work bench. John heard the fluttering of prints as they were pushed off the table onto the floor beside him.

Sherlock sounded wrecked, and that drove John to keep going. John wrapped his right hand around Sherlock's thigh, his fingers digging in. With his other he ran his fingers through Sherlock's crisp pubic hair. He followed the trail of hair, letting his finger trace the outline of Sherlock's navel. He spread his hand wide and slid it up over his lower abs. He pressed as he bobbed his head, feeling a thrill run up his fingertips when he felt Sherlock's muscles flex from the pleasure John was giving him.

Sherlock gripped the table so hard it started to thump against the wall in time with John's mouth. The hand in his hair pulled sharply making John moan around Sherlock's cock. John felt the already thick cock swell and without warning Sherlock climaxed, pulsing his release against the back of John's throat. John kept sucking.

He wasn't sure if Sherlock was standing on his own or if he was holding the other man up. John didn't care, he savored the way Sherlock's body sagged against his in post orgasmic bliss. He palmed his neglected erection and hissed. John debated unzipping and taking himself in hand. He knew it would only take a few tugs and he would come hard enough to alert Mrs Hudson that more than film was developing. That is, if they hadn't already.

The ache in his shoulder and knees pulled him from his debate and he stood, ignoring the cracking of his knees. He pulled up Sherlock's pants as he went, letting the other man fix his gi himself. John rested his head on Sherlock's sternum.

"I think you broke my brain, John." Sherlock sucked on John's neck, biting and licking. Each nip made John's cock throb. "Let's go upstairs and I'll see if I can break yours."

"Mine's not quite as impressive as yours." John huffed a laugh as Sherlock sucked harder on his throat. John moaned and pressed his aching cock against Sherlock's hip.

"It looks pretty impressive from here."

"It's really is. Let's go upstairs and I'll introduce you to it in the shower." John bit gently at Sherlock's ear.

Pounding on the door of 221C broke both men apart.

"Bloody hell, what is it? My sodding balls are going to fall off."

John flipped the switch that turned off the red light, and the regular white light came on. They both groaned at the change. John double checked to make sure that Sherlock had pulled on his hoodie again. When he swung the door open, Sally Donovan stood there with Mrs. Hudson. John felt the last of his erection fade and settle into a dull pang.

"Oh Sherlock, what have you done?" The landlady fidgeted with a hanky, looking both worried and curious. She peeked around Sally to see what exactly her tenants had been up to.

"Drugs bust," Sally smirked.

"That's ridiculous; we don't have drugs." John looked over at Sherlock, who didn't meet his eyes. He started to fidget with his drawstrings.

"Fine. Come in then. Don't touch the pans or the prints. Some of them are wet. I'm going upstairs and taking a shower." He shook his head as Sherlock reached for him.

"You can't leave the building." Sally's voice carried after him. John noticed her poking around in the old tea canister he used to hold USB drives.

"Those are mine, and obviously not drugs." He made his voice into steel and ducked around Mrs Hudson to stomp upstairs.

It had been a long night. Just when he thought he knew what was happening, the rug had been jerked out from under him again. He couldn't get the imagine of Sherlock's face out of his head. That guilty little boy look. He had seen it often enough on his own sister's face, his father's face.

Naturally, John would run into a crazy adrenaline and lust-filled relationship with an addict. He ignored the open door to the living room and trudged up the final set of stairs to his bathroom, shut the door, and locked it. He hoped they didn't find anything. That nothing would ruin what had just barely begun.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Under Pressure

John stood in the shower letting the hot water beat into his tense shoulders and ease his muscles into relaxation. He grabbed his soap and absent mindedly ran his flannel over his skin while he thought of how stunning Sherlock looked the moment he climaxed. John shivered at the memory and when the soft, wet flannel grazed his prick, he scrunched his eyes closed. He bit his lip to hold back a moan of half pleasure and half pain. John stopped washing and leant against the cool tiles.

He cupped himself, his cock plump and throbbing. It would not take long to relieve the delicious tension in the pit of his stomach. He could not remember when his skin had felt so sensitive, an electric tingle thrumming just below the surface. John rolled his neck, hoping to loosen the tight muscles. His hand roamed lower, to his bullocks.

Erotic images of Sherlock flashed in his photographer's mind. Shirtless and bruised Sherlock, the way the sweat sheened on his skin. The way the red light from the darkroom looked on the Sherlock's neck as he moaned John's name.

Suddenly, the image of Sherlock's face as Donovan announced the drugs bust surfaced, the guilty shuttered look in those eyes. John pushed away from the wall and let the water spray in his face, trying to wash the visual away. The long simmering desire coiled back and the mood was gone. It was as if the water had switched to ice cold. John shifted his thoughts to what was edible in the flat or if sleep would be a better option.

John's stomach rumbled loudly, settling the mental debate. With a sigh, he put the soap away and finished rinsing off. John kept thinking of the cop drama unfolding downstairs. He sincerely hoped they were gone by the time he finished. He shut off the water and stood in the steam for a moment longer. He watched it escape as he stepped out onto the fuzzy bathmat. The towel he grabbed felt like sandpaper against his reddened tender skin.

He needed to eat something, then crawl into bed and close his eyes. The roller coaster adrenaline ride was finally taking its toll. A new opportunity with his photography, watching Sherlock bare knuckle fight, and helping to investigate a grisly murder...

Not to mention a sexy snog in a dark alleyway and rainy first kisses.

Oh, and he had given his flatmate the best blowjob of his life. At least, he hoped it was the best Sherlock had ever received.

Now, he stood in front of a foggy mirror with a towel around his waist, debating if he should shave or just get dressed and face the horde of coppers searching the flat. He opened the bathroom door to find a disheveled Sherlock kneeling in front of him with a set of lock picking tools, biting that kiss swollen bottom lip in concentration.

"May I help you?" John crossed his arms over his chest and raised his eyebrow.

"I can explain." Sherlock muttered as he jumped to his feet. He swooped into John's room as if he was a one man hurricane and flopped onto John's bed. "Giles believes I took a piece of evidence from the scene. He's come in with his minions to get it. It's very childish on his part."

"Did you take anything?" John picked his words carefully, letting them mean whatever Sherlock would make of them. It was a trick he learned dealing with his sister.

"Of course not. When I was younger, I would sometimes use drugs. Don't worry; I've been tested." Sherlock's cheeks pinkened as their eyes met and he dragged his fingers through his tangled curls.

"Okay. You're clean now?" John took a deep breath. He crossed the room to his dresser and rummaged around for clothes. Sherlock's eyes followed his every move.

"Yes, John. I needed it to keep my brain from tearing itself apart. Now, I have the puzzles, the Work. And I hope I have you."

John dropped his towel and heard Sherlock groan behind him. He smiled and pulled on his lucky red pants and then his jeans. He made sure to wiggle his bum a little extra.

John turned around and faced Sherlock. He caught the way Sherlock's eyes roamed over his bare chest and he smirked at him. He swaggered over, leant down and kissed Sherlock.

"You do." John mouthed against Sherlock's lips before kissing him again. They pulled apart when they heard a crash and the sound of glass breaking downstairs.

"They're still here?" John dragged a shirt over his head.

"Unfortunately." Sherlock replied, the cords standing out along his neck. He leapt to his feet and marched down stairs with John following after.

The shattered glass was a set of test tubes Sherlock had left sitting on the kitchen table.

"Oops," Anderson deadpanned as Sherlock came into the kitchen, John close behind him.

"Oi, you're a cunt, Anderson. And I don't mean that as a term of endearment." John looked over at Greg and raised his eyebrows. The DI just shrugged.

"Sorry about this, John, but we had a tip." Lestrade looked away and ran his hand through this hair.

"You can't speak to me like that, Watson, I have seniority." Anderson stalked closer to John with his mouth pinched in a line. He lowered his chin to look down at John.

"I can say whatever I want. You're in my home, and I'm not on duty. So fuck off, tosser." John almost hoped that Anderson would start something. Sherlock wasn't the only one who enjoyed a good fight. Sherlock put a warm hand on his shoulder. John relaxed the fists he hadn't realized he was making.

"Gentlemen, stop it. We're clear. Everyone out." Lestrade put himself in Sherlock's line of sight. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Between how you were acting last night and the missing evidence..." Greg shuffled his feet for a moment. John noticed how Greg rubbed his thumb across his index and middle fingertips. His whole body seemed to sag and he looked tired.

"I didn't take the evidence. Anderson mislabeled it." Sherlock started to pace. "Even without the matching soil, it's obvious that the murder weapon was hedge clippers. The gardener's wife did it. Love, after all, is the cruelest motivator for this kind of thing. She walks in on her beloved husband _in flagrante delicto_ with her brother of all people. I could tell her brother was bisexual by his shoes—"

"His shoes?" Lestrade looked down at his brogues and then at John's bare feet. His head swung back up and followed Sherlock's trainers as he paced.

"Yes, yes… She thought to frame her brother by stealing a body from the family business. That was her mistake. Her brother had several fresh corpses that came in a few days ago. Nasty car accident." Sherlock paused and tapped his finger against his bottom lip.

John's eyes were drawn to that perfect cupid's bow mouth and he felt the heat rush into his cheeks. He looked away.

"So it was the wife?" Greg patted his pockets until he found his small notebook. Thumbing it open swiftly, he jotted down everything Sherlock had said.

"Obviously. Have Anderson find the evidence _he lost_ and it'll prove it. The soil from her shoes matches all three locations."

"He probably did." Lestrade snapped his notebook closed. John felt the silence fill the flat and grow awkward. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"But we were worried about you. Mycroft thought it might be a danger night." Lestrade didn't meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Tell my brother to keep his fat nose out of my business." Sherlock glared at Greg. When his eyes met John's, they softened. He took a deep breath, sighed, and walked into his room without another word. Greg flinched when the door slammed.

"I'm sorry about this, John. It's just, with his history..." Lestrade motioned with his hand. John noticed how worn and worried the cover of his notepad was.

"It's fine. Just go, I'll handle it from here." John was angry on Sherlock's behalf, but he was also exhausted.

He watched as Greg left, the door shutting quietly behind him. John locked both locks and went into the kitchen to make tea. Grandmother Watson always said a cuppa could fix anything that ailed you. As a doctor, he found this bit of family lore to be true. He filled the kettle with water and switched it on.

John felt like he could fall asleep on his feet, yet his mind kept returning to Sherlock. They needed to talk and clear away any mixed signals or embarrassment that lingered. He swept up the mess of the broken test tubes, the motions giving him mind focus. Once the room was tidied, he stood at the counter gathering the last of his thoughts.

John pulled two mugs down from the cupboard, grabbed the square box of PG Tips, and flicked the lid open. He savored the comforting scent of black tea as it enveloped him. He dropped a little papery tea pyramid into each mug while he waited for the kettle to beep. He stood at Sherlock's door and hesitated knocking. Sherlock could be sleeping and John didn't want to wake him.

The vibration of his phone startled him. He ran his hand through his hair and looked at the screen. Given the way his luck was going, he prepared himself for just about anything.

 **Can you come and look at the layout?**

The text was from Sarah. He felt a thrill pass through him.

 **When? -JW**

 **Right now. I want to finalize it for the opening on Wednesday.**

 **On my way. -JW**

He knocked softly on Sherlock's door and listened, but heard nothing. John wondered if Sherlock had decided to just go to bed. He didn't want to wake him, if that was the case. He moved quickly back to the kettle and flicked it off. He left everything sitting out on the counter. He'd make them a cuppa when he returned home.

John grabbed the notebook he used when he took notes for his blog and tore a piece of paper out. He quickly jotted a note for his flatmate. His boyfriend? What exactly were they? He liked thinking of Sherlock as something more than just someone he shared a flat with.

 **S-**

 **Running an errand. You're eating tonight. Pick a menu. Text if you need anything.**

 **-J**

John left the note on Sherlock's microscope, held down by the stage clips. He was sure that Sherlock would find the note when he woke up. He grabbed his leather jacket off the peg, shut the door, and dashed down the stairs.

Sherlock heard John knocking, but ignored it. He needed time alone after the whole drug bust debacle. Emotions were not something he was good at. He supposed he felt a little embarrassed by the fuss his brother and Lestrade had made. Danger night? John must think he was an unstable junkie.

He heard the front door shut, and then John jogging down the stairs. He climbed off his bed and threw open the door to his closet. He pulled out the portable record player and the black vinyl album that he had hidden there. Sherlock laid both items carefully on his bed, side by side.

He wanted to listen to the record, to find out what John had named after him. However, he also wanted John to explain it to him with his words and with his actions. The way that John saw Sherlock and his reactions to him were so unlike any he had previously experienced.

He sighed and flipped the album between his fingers. In the past Sherlock wouldn't care about what someone else was feeling. He often erred on the side of asking for forgiveness instead of permission. John was different. He wanted to see the way John's eyes looked when he presented Sherlock with his gift.

It was settled. He would wait for John to give him this gift on his own time. He pulled open his bedroom door. John's jacket was gone; he knew he was alone.

He had just slipped the album back into its spot between two other records when he heard the front door open and close. He paused to listen to the gait on the stairs. The usual pattern did not match anyone who had previously walked up them.

He frowned. It must be a client, no doubt with a dull case. The Work didn't seem to hold much appeal today. He required maintenance to his transport, he was feeling aches and pains from the last twenty-four hours worth of activities. Sherlock took the stairs down casually. He wanted the client to mistake his aloofness for nonchalance. He often found that a client's willingness to part with useful information increased the more Sherlock pretended he did not care. He took in the man who stood in front of their door.

He wore tan trousers with a plain button down shirt and a blue cardigan over it. Sherlock looked him over from head to toe. He tapped his right index finger to his lips as he observed the stranger. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

Deductions flooded into his mind palace.

 _Soldier._

 _Hint of gun oil on his trousers._

 _Knows John._

 _Blond hair, tan face and hands._

 _Discharged from the army, but still working in Afghanistan. Doing what?_

 _Only recently returned to London._

"May I help you?" Sherlock watched as the man at the door jumped slightly.

 _PTSD._

 _Not on guard._

 _Distracted._

 _Wants something._

"Yes, I'm looking for Captain John Watson." The man turned and peered up at Sherlock. He had blue eyes three shades lighter than John's.

Sherlock brushed past him and opened the door. The visitor followed him.

"You're here to see John because you want something. You're nervous, but it's not because of me. You're nervous to see John again. You were both in the army together. You were his superior officer. You mentioned his rank. It's a tactic you used to distance yourself from your sexual feelings for him. Reminding yourself that he served under you. Fascinating. Does John know?"

The blond man stood gaping at Sherlock, his mouth open and moving but no words came out.

"You've been back from Afghanistan for roughly two weeks. You needed to work up your nerve to come _here_. Why?" Sherlock saw the other man's eyes cut to John's laptop where it sat on the coffee table. "You're here because of John's blog."

"Now, wait a damn minute. I'm here to see John. I didn't come here to get picked apart. I read about you on John's blog. You got that much right at least. You must be Sherlock Holmes."

"What exactly did I get wrong then?"

"Piss off, mate. Tell John that Sebastian Moran came to see him. I'm at the Landmark. It's urgent, about the job." He turned and left while Sherlock stood making sense of his words.

Job? Was this the interview that John mentioned? Would he be going back to Afghanistan to work with Moran? Someone who had once been attracted to John.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair. All this sentiment. He never cared for it; emotions slowed down his brain and he couldn't tolerate that. Even as those thoughts tumbled around his mind palace, Sherlock flopped onto the couch, his back to the door.

He thought about the first time he saw John, that first crime scene, and his tiny bedsit. The fishmonger case and how John had joked, the way his eyes had sparkled with mirth. John loved the adrenaline. He loved the risk and the work. Sherlock knew that John missed the war and would go back if he had a chance to do it. Sherlock had to prepare himself. John was going to leave him.

It felt bloody amazing, seeing his photos in frames with their own little light to highlight what he had tried to capture. His favorite had been the ones with Sherlock in them. He hoped that the other man would understand what he saw when he took those pictures.

He had his first gallery showing because of Sherlock and the pictures that he took on their mad adventures through London. When he came home from the military, he'd felt like a boat without a rudder. Just drifting along, with an almost unbearable restlessness in his spirit he couldn't face or explain. Working for the MET felt right, and it soothed that feeling that often lodged in his chest and made him wake from nightmares covered in sweat and clutching his sheets. Since moving in with Sherlock, he didn't feel that way as often. Those moments when it would sneak up on him, Sherlock usually noticed before he did and declared that he needed him to assist with a client. They would solve cases, and John would write them up and post his pictures, and that had brought him here.

He felt like he could float home from Sarah's showroom. Checking his phone, he noticed there were no messages. He frowned and sent one of his own.

 **Did you find my note? -JW**

 **Yes. -SH**

 **Did you decide on takeaway? I'm on my way home. -JW**

 **No. Not eating. Sebastian Moran was here looking for you.-SH**

 **Moran? What did he want?-JW**

 **Mentioned your job. He's at the Landmark. -SH**

 **Thanks. I'm getting you mango rice from that Thai place you like.-JW**

He looked up the number to the Landmark hotel and called it. It took a few seconds, but John felt his stomach twist as he heard the sound of the phone ringing to Moran's room. Old regrets and ghosts of memories churned as he listened to another ring. He was not a taciturn man, but for a moment he wanted to hang up. He lowered the phone to press the end call button when he heard the other man pick up.

"This is Seb."

John swallowed and took a quick breath. Memories of the war flashed through his mind. Perfect snapshots of Seb laughing as they raced each other to the mess hall. Another moment he thought he was alone and allowed himself to weep over a young soldier who John couldn't save. One of so many. He had looked up and there stood this man. The voice reminded him of how the starch of Seb's shirt smelled as he hugged John and let him cry. How he had whispered nonsense to soothe him.

"Hey Colonel, it's John Watson." John stopped walking. So many emotions bubbled up and suddenly he didn't trust his leg to hold him. Even though he knew it was all in his mind, it could creep up on him when he least expected it. He stood on the sidewalk as people passed him.

"John, how are you? I met your flatmate. What a prick." Sebastian laughed and John frowned. He waited a moment.

"I'm good. What can I do for you, Seb?" John felt his phone vibrate, receiving a text message.

"I need to see you as soon as possible. I'm leaving in the morning. Can you meet me downstairs in the hotel bar?" The pause felt like a million years to John. "I'm sorry for the short notice, John, but it's important. I need to see you before I leave."

"Sherlock mentioned a job. Are you calling in that favor?" John had always suspected that Moran had pulled strings to get him the job at the Met. Now he wondered if this was Seb asking for a favor in return.

"I'm just asking you to talk, Watson. That's all."

"Fine. I'm on my way."

John disconnected and looked at his text.

 **Not eating. Going to Barts. -SH**

John tried to rein in his temper. Between Moran and Sherlock pulling back when John wanted to keep moving forward, John could feel his blood pressure rising. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

 **Fine. Going to meet Moran. Be home later. -JW**

 **Fine. -SH**

He hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to the Landmark. He wasn't dressed for the place, with his leather jacket and jeans, but he decided he didn't give a fuck.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

By Your Side

John wished he had his camera. The courtyard of the Landmark was stunning. Tall, lush palm trees, the cut glass skylights overhead that let natural light diffuse into the room. It gave everything an ethereal glow. The facade of the hotel was champagne colored with black wrought iron details.

As John approached the concierge, he could feel the man giving him a once over. He wore a black three piece suit, complete with silver watch chain that glinted in the light. It matched the smart name tag that read Louis. Louis tilted his head back so he could look down his nose. John wondered if he ironed the part in his brown hair at the same time as his uniform. Maybe he'd underestimated just how fancy the hotel was.

The Landmark Hotel was famous for their Winter Garden. A splendid place for afternoon tea, surrounded by the rest of hotel. As an avid tea drinker and British gentleman, of course, he wanted to try it. He could see the glass gazebo that marked the entrance as he strode to the podium.

Hopefully, Moran would spot him and save him from being asked to leave.

"I'm supposed to meet Colonel Sebastian Moran at the bar."

Louis straightened his uniform with a sharp tug. "Ah, yes. This way, Sir." His expression puckered for a moment and then fell back into closed disinterest.

They made their way to a bar that differed from the courtyard drastically. The colors were darker than the lobby decor. The light glowed, but it brought out the warmth of chocolate brown and black leather seats. He spotted Moran sitting in a wingback chair next to a small round table. On it was a bottle of Macallan 1824 and two glasses. John smiled.

"You remembered my favorite. I'm touched." John took a seat next to the other man and watched as the maître d' rushed away.

"Nice jacket. I'm sure they loved you in the lobby. I forgot that your first love is tea. Too bad we're late for the Winter Garden." He poured John two fingers and didn't bother to add ice.

"This makes up for it. Cheers." John picked his glass up and tapped Moran's almost empty one. Moran replenished it. They both sat back in their seats and sipped for a moment.

"So, what's this about a job?" John crossed his legs. His worn boots looked so foreign against the lux carpet that was patterned into geometric designs with its slate gray and cream accents. He rested his wrist on the arm of the chair, his glass hanging over the side.

"No catching up? I can see you haven't changed. Interesting gig you got after the war. I didn't expect you to step away from being a doctor." Sebastian said 'doctor' with a slight pull in the corner of his mouth. His eyes caught John's and held them for several beats. John finally looked away.

"No? Didn't you pull a favor to get me into the Met? I used you as a reference." John took a sip of his scotch.

"No. I never heard from anyone about your current job. I've been working a security detail for reporters in Kabul. That's why I'm here. I showed your blog to a few friends of mine, and they loved it. You'd be perfect for an assignment. They need photojournalists." He leaned forward. "We could work together again. Outside of the army." He sighed, took another drink, and peered at John with his eyes narrowed.

"I don't know what to say, Seb. I'm happy here." John leaned his head back against the seat and remembered the way Sherlock's mouth tasted in the rain. He couldn't capture how he felt so he took another drink. "I have a gallery showing the day after tomorrow. I mean, it's small, and it's happening because another artist decided not to show. But it's still my work." John finished his drink and poured them both another.

"I met your flatmate. He was a right prick. He said a lot of things, John." Sebastian leaned forward and clasped his hands together, elbows resting on his knees. He turned his head slowly towards John and John noticed the lines around his eyes were more etched than they had been. He sat up straighter, clenched his fist briefly, then relaxed.

"Sherlock's brilliant. You should see him at crime scenes. He can figure out who did it in seconds by how a gum wrapper was folded." He smiled, thinking of his...whatever he was.

"So, I can't tempt you to come back with me? I have a ticket for you upstairs." Finally, Sebastian looked John in the face. His gaze roamed over John's chin, lips, and cheeks until he reached his eyes. Pale blue irises softened with scotch and old memories.

John needed to express how thankful he was to this man for his years of friendship. But he would not be leaving London.

He finished his drink and set the thick glass back on the small table. He felt the spirits in his blood humming. His muddled brain tried to form words. Before he could utter them, Sebastian leaned over and kissed him.

"Please come back to my room with me. I know I didn't imagine it. You felt something for me, too. Now, we can have it. There's no command looking over my shoulder." He leaned in to kiss John again. His mouth was so close John could smell his aftershave and the Mac on his breath.

"No." It was all John could say. He pulled away and stood stiffly. He felt a sharp pain in his leg and reminded himself it was all in his head. John squared his shoulders and didn't allow Sebastian to crowd him when the other man sprang to his feet.

"Just one night, then. Before I leave. We might never have another chance." Seb rocked back onto his heels and rubbed the back of his neck.

"No. Don't use the whole 'we might not have another chance' on me. How many chances did we pass up on patrol? How many times did you send my unit into hell, knowing we had this between us, yet you never allowed either of us to act on it? You told me no then. I'm not something you can just pick up when it suits you. So don't talk to me about our missed fucking chances. You lost that right, Seb. I finally have a real chance with someone who's willing to try, and I'm bloody well taking it."

John thought about Sherlock, the way he looked as he deduced a crime scene, the way the light from the streetlamps would silhouette him as he played his violin at the window. Tension settled into his shoulders and his left leg gave a sharp pain as the scar tissue stretched. There was an ache in the center of his chest, a pull to go get back to Baker Street as soon as he could. For the first time in his adult life, his dwelling felt like a home.

Sebastian licked his lips and closed his eyes for a moment. He opened them again, and John saw the steel, the shine in his eyes Seb got when he completely disagreed with something. How many times had John seen that look in the glaring sun and desert sands?

"I was your superior officer, Watson. I couldn't sneak off for a shag in a supply tent." He kept his voice low.

"Right. We never went on leave together or anything." John rolled his eyes, remembering a time when they were alone together on a three-day furlough that had them both intoxicated and gambling the whole time. John made it clear he was interested, and Seb ignored him.

Both men faced off, their backs military straight. The tension was thick; John felt it swirling around them. Anger and resignation balanced on a precipice. John could feel both emotions pulling him down. They had been friends for so many years, but John felt this was it, a goodbye that he had never expected.

Suddenly the tension held in Sebastian's body snapped and he crumbled a little. His shoulders curved forward.

"Cock it. Here's my room key if you change your is no way Three Continents Watson could ever settle down. Your _boyfriend,_ " Seb's mouth twisted into a sneer, "doesn't need to _know_." His last word was spoken as a challenge.

Moran pushed his key into the inside pocket of John's jacket. "I'll see you upstairs when you finally find your bullocks, soldier." He patted John's chest. Sebastian picked up the Mac and, not bothering with his glass, walked passed John. His smooth gait was that of a man expecting to get what he wanted.

John watched him leave. How many times had he watched Seb walk away and felt the dull ache in his chest, never knowing if it would be the last time? He didn't feel that pull or the pain now. He just felt hollow anger and a need for home. For Sherlock, and Baker Street.

He marched towards the exit, his strides long and angrier the more he thought of Moran's certainty. He wanted to get as far away from the posh hotel, and that man, as quick as he could.

He pushed past the idiot maître d and out to the street. John could feel the rain in the air as he took a deep breath. The anger in his chest deflated. He passed a cab at the kerb but ignored it. As badly as he wanted to be with Sherlock right now, he needed to clear his head. He decided to walk the distance to Baker Street and use the time to think about nothing.

The morgue at Bart's was as familiar and comforting as Baker Street. Sherlock looked around at the counters filled with lab equipment and then back at the microscope before him. The slides he had made were not really keeping his interest. He was there just to buy time while John was out visiting his friend.

His phone sounded its text alert and he glanced over at the screen.

 **Having a domestic? -MH**

 **img.4853**

The picture that was attached was a CCTV still of John. He walked with his head down and his hands fisted in the pockets of his leather jacket. Sherlock loved that coat. It made the unassuming blonde man look like a bad boy. He appeared to be headed towards Baker Street, if the building was any indication. Sherlock knew almost every part of London, but CCTV stills left a lot to be desired for picture quality.

 **He's meeting someone. -SH**

Sherlock didn't know what to call Moran. Who was he, exactly, to John? Judging by the photo, the visit hadn't ended well.

 **Yes, I know, brother mine. It seems your photographer left rather angry after the Colonel kissed him. Perhaps you should return home. -MH**

 **You have eyes on the inside of the Landmark? -SH**

 **Of course, it's a goldmine for blackmail. And they have a lovely wine selection. -MH**

 **img.3530 img.3083**

The photo's loaded in 7.4 seconds. Roughly seven seconds too long for Sherlock. The first was the kiss. John's face was startled. He did not appear to be kissing the other man back. The second photo was John mid-sentence. He looked livid. Sherlock was out the door and into a cab before his mind registered he was moving.

He kept his eyes on the picture of John, his face deeply lined with anger as he spoke. They appeared to be in the bar lounge with an open bottle of Macallan and two glasses on the table between them.

Sherlock needed to see John in person. However, there was a huge part of him that wanted to divert to the Landmark Hotel and administer a beating to the Colonel for making John look like that. He felt a mixture of protectiveness and jealousy, a twist in his gut that burned. John Watson was _his_.

Thinking so was a bit not good, perhaps, but Sherlock didn't care.

Sherlock managed to beat John home. He called from the cab and had Thai delivered. He met the restaurant owner's teenage son at the front steps and paid for everything as the young man excitedly told Sherlock about how much he enjoyed John's latest blog entry.

"Doc Watson is so cool! Those pictures were ace! Dad made sure to throw in extra fortune cookies and he hopes that you and the Doc come back in soon!" He waved at Sherlock with the pound notes still clutched in his hand as he climbed back onto his bike and took off.

Sherlock found himself waving back at the boy. Then, he unlocked the door and flew up the stairs. He laid out everything on the coffee table, John's favorite vegan rice closest to his chair. He carefully laid the paper rolled wooden chopsticks on top. John was very bad at using them, but he always insisted.

Sherlock pulled his coat off and hung it up. He rushed into the kitchen to start the kettle and checked the fridge for the ale that John sometimes liked. He wanted everything to be conducive to a favourable outcome.

Sherlock double checked everything before sending a text to John.

 **Where are you?-SH**

 **Almost home. Did you want me to get dinner? -JW**

 **I took care of it. -SH**

 **On my way. -JW**

Sherlock went into his room and glanced at the freshly made bed. He had hidden a bottle of lube under the right side pillow.

Should he light candles? What was the appropriate protocol for seducing someone? In uni, he had experimented with sex numerous times with varying degrees of success and different variables. By the time he had found cocaine, he had lost interest in sex.

John was the first person he wanted an actual relationship with. He had strong feelings for John the enigma. He valued his loyalty, his steadfastness, and his courage. In a lot of ways, John was his conscience. He was the lighthouse offering illumination so Sherlock wouldn't crash and break himself against the rocky shores of what others deemed normal. Never had a person interested him so much.

Sherlock heard him coming up the stairs; the unsteady gait meant his limp was affecting him. A surge of fresh anger towards Moran filled Sherlock. He schooled his facial features so John wouldn't notice anything amiss.

John opened the door and came in, shrugging his jacket off and hanging it up next to Sherlock's Belstaff.

"It smells wonderful in here! I need to change and shower, I'll be back in a tick."

He smiled at Sherlock and headed up the stairs to his room. Shortly after, Sherlock heard the water running.

He touched John's jacket, fighting the urge to smell it. Maybe he had a bit of a leather kink? No, he was pretty confident it was a Watson kink.

As his hands left the jacket, it slide off the hook. He caught it before it landed on the floor. When he hung it back up, he saw that a white and back hotel key had fallen out. Across the front of it in gold print was _The Landmark_.

Sherlock slid the card back into the pocket of John's jacket. He pushed the idea of using it to break into Moran's room aside. He had better plans for tonight.

Upstairs, the water shut off.

Sherlock's mind rushed through outcomes to the scenarios he had envisioned. He checked the temperature of the food. John didn't like eating cold food. Sherlock deduced he had to endure a lot of cold meals while in the army.

He picked up John's rice, carried it into the kitchen, and watched it as it turned slowly in the microwave. The timer dinged. Sherlock rearranged it by John's chair.

John came down a few minutes later wearing black sweats and a faded khaki green shirt. It had **RAMC** on it in bold black letters and under that it read ' _We Bury Our Mistakes'_. John watched him as he read it and then brightly smiled when Sherlock blinked in surprise.

"But you were a doctor, John." He leaned back on the couch and watched as John took his chair and picked up the container that Sherlock had warmed for him.

"Ta, for heating it. As for my shirt... Well, I had some bad days."

He laughed and his eyes crinkled. Sherlock memorized how he looked, the sound of his laughter, and how he smelt like water and body wash. The memory in his mind palace would have hints of curry and mango rice too.

"Here, have some of this. You need to eat." John pushed the rice towards him. Sherlock smiled, ducking his head, and took a bite of John's rice. Sherlock rearranged the containers so John could have something else.

"How was Barts?" John took a bottle of water off the table and smiled at Sherlock. Then he leaned back in his chair and relaxed further.

"I ran some tests. Molly is dating a someone from the MET. I'm going to see if Gilbert can check him out." He took a bite of rice and watched John from the corner of his eye.

"You're as bad as Mycroft. It's sweet that you care. Molly is a dear." He put his plate on the table. "We need to talk."

"Do we, John? I'm perfectly content to finish dinner, then take you to my bedroom and shag you into the mattress." He looked into John's eyes, watched as they dilated, becoming dark azure pools of liquid desire.

"Fuck dinner."

Sherlock suddenly had a lap full of John Watson. This was not an option that Sherlock had expected. A surprised laugh burst from him. John settled his knees on either side of Sherlock's thighs. The moment that passed between them felt like hours, but it was mere seconds. John put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and leant closer. It felt as if gravity was pulling him into the orbit that surrounded John and Sherlock went eagerly.

Their lips brushed against each other gently, jarring compared to the weight of John on him. Sherlock tilted his head back so John could deepen their kiss. John's lips held a hint of the spicy curry and as their tongues met and danced around each other Sherlock could taste the sweetness of mango. Both those flavors seemed to meld with John's unique taste, but Sherlock wanted to get past everything until he was tasting nothing but John.

Sherlock's hands trembled as he placed them on John's thighs. He could feel the muscles flexing as he shifted closer. Sherlock slid his hands up until they found his hips. It was evident that John wasn't wearing pants under his sweats, and that sent a shiver up Sherlock's spine.

"You're not wearing pants." Sherlock pulled back. Their eyes met.

John's eyebrows lifted, and he gave a huff of laughter. "I'm aware of that."

"I like it."

Sherlock placed small bites along the underside of John's jaw, moving down his neck. He tasted like soap and, under that, like himself. Sherlock closed his eyes to commit it to memory. "We need to go to my room. Now, John."

"Bossy, aren't you?" John rotated his hips in a lazy circle. Sherlock dug his fingers deeper into John's flesh.

"I will be forced to pick you up and carry you." He pulled the blond down towards his erection, his hips rising. Their cocks rubbed against each other through the two layers of cloth. The fabric muted the sensation and added weight to it.

"You could try." John hissed.

His hands drifted from Sherlock's shoulders to his hair, his dexterous surgeon's fingers following the ridges along the back of his head and then suddenly pulling, forcing his head back. "I'm not a ragdoll." John kissed him, a quick peck on his mouth. "C'mon Sherlock, take me to bed."

When he stood, the sweats hung lower. Sherlock could see his iliac furrow and a sprinkling of strawberry blonde hair that descended from his belly button. John's erection was prominent and the desire to pull his sweats off became the only thought in Sherlock's head.

Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it out of his trousers. He followed behind John as the other man strolled into his room. Sherlock watched the way John's t-shirt, faded and well worn, hugged his back and shoulders. Sherlock slid his hands up the back of John's shirt, marveling at how silky smooth John's skin felt.

When John paused at the door he pushed him to make him start walking. Sherlock pulled the hem of John's shirt to remove it. John raised his arms and his steps faltered.

"In a hurry?" John's voice became muffled for a moment by the shirt. "Gimme a second, you pushy bastard. I can't see where I'm going."

Sherlock dropped John's shirt on the floor and peeled his own off. John giggled as he flopped ungracefully on the side of Sherlock's bed. He leaned back, his hips pushed forward, his legs spread and his feet planted on floor. The sweats clung to his pronounced erection. Sherlock dragged his eyes over its shape, then the ridges and planes of John's stomach and chest.

John's eyes were hooded with lust. He licked his lips and leaned back on his elbows. Everything Sherlock found erotic was spread out in front of him. Sherlock felt as if his lungs had stopped working as he beheld the sight of this wanton version of John Watson.

His eyes caught sight of the raised pink skin of John's scar. Just below his clavicle, it looked like a topographic map of an undiscovered place.

Sherlock wanted to know it like he knew every corner of London. He wanted to memorize it with fingertips, the tip of his tongue. By taste.

Radiating away from the scar were the angry lines that would fade in color in time. The signs of infection that did more damage than the bullet. Sherlock Holmes had come so very close to not knowing the fascinating puzzle that was John Watson.

The mere idea made something deep in his chest ache. He put his hand on the spot and rubbed it absently.

"Yeah, it's not very pretty to look at, sorry. I can put my shirt back on." John's expressive face went blank. Sherlock watched as John's forehead smoothed out, the crinkles around his eyes grew less defined. Those blue eyes were looking for his shirt, pointedly skipping over Sherlock. The shuttered expression threatened to take root.

"No, you don't understand. I think it's admirable. I respect it. You received it shielding someone's life. I can deduce so much from it, the size of the bullet, the trajectory. I can see the way the muscle healed, collagen and elastin fibers knitting together to bring you to London. Its symmetrical chaos is pleasing to study. I want to know it. May I touch it?"

Sherlock let John see how sincere he was. He watched as John's shoulders relaxed, his face lost that emptiness.

"Yes, god yes. Touch me, please. Anywhere, everywhere." John's words came out in a relieved sigh that grew hotter and needier.

Sherlock closed the distance between them. He stood between John's legs, reached out, and nudged John so he'd lay back. He bent over to compensate for their height difference and twisted his fingers into John's short blonde hair. He pulled John's head to the right to expose the golden skin of his neck and ran his nose along John's jawline, memorizing the scent.

John's body wash had top notes of fresh mahogany and blood orange. Under that was the subtle spice of sandalwood. Somewhere, Sherlock caught the essence of musky vanilla. He would have to experiment to determine if it was John's natural odor. He wanted to use his body wash and see if he smelt as alluring as John did afterward. Sherlock wanted to know every detail of John's body chemistry.

He kissed John's scar slowly and deliberately. The tip of his tongue flicked out and slid across the peaks and valleys of it. John moaned. His legs opened wider, Sherlock let go of John's hair, grabbed John's thighs, and angled his hips up. He pressed forward, their erections sliding against each other. John rocked up, his lower back leaving the bed.

"Too many layers," John mumbled at the ceiling.

"I concur."

Sherlock let go of John reluctantly. He stood back and unbuttoned his trousers. John wiggled back on the bed. The room crackled with sexual energy, Sherlock felt the hairs on his arms stand up. Sherlock pushed his trousers down, ignoring the small pop of the button of his french fly. He kicked the trousers away and stood wearing nothing but his pants.

"So your taste in pants is as expensive as your taste in suits?" John raised his eyebrow. "I didn't know that La Perla made men's underwear."

"You don't put racing stripes on a Jaguar John." Sherlock canted his hips forward. His cock was pressed against his stomach, the tip peeking above the little brand logo.

"Your cock looks amazing in those, but I want to see it bare." John's eyes locked onto him and Sherlock felt his cock pulse.

"You first." Sherlock could barely force the words out.

He leant across the bed, grabbed the elastic waist of the sweats, and pulled. John lifted to ease their way to the floor.

"I'm going to savor you, John. You tasted me downstairs, and now I think it's my turn." Sherlock lowered his voice to a rumble he knew John found appealing.

John said nothing, he just smirked at Sherlock and opened his legs wider.

Sherlock studied him for a moment. The way his feet looked duvet of his bed. The curve of his calves. The scars on his knees from playing rugby in college.

The deductions flowed seamlessly. They filed themselves neatly into a room in his mind palace that was now only John's. The golden hairs grew denser from his knees as they covered his thighs. His skin was pale there, but the hairs gave it a honey glow.

Sherlock drew his knee onto the bed and knelt over John's lower body. He pressed his face against John's left thigh. It was his dominant leg, so the muscle was thicker there. He caught that delicious hint of vanilla again and moaned.

John tangled his fingers into Sherlock's hair, and he groaned again. He imagined he was following the trail left to him by John's femoral artery as he slowly bit and licked his way up. He kept his lips pressed over the taut muscle of John's thigh and let his eyes find John's cock.

The skin was a rosy pink. His foreskin covered the glans, but Sherlock could see it was shiny with pre-come. John's testicles were covered in more of those soft, sparse, golden honey hairs, and Sherlock nuzzled there. He took a deep breath as John squirmed and wrapped a large hand around John's shaft. His talented violinist fingertips explored him. He wanted to learn John's cock as if it was Braille. He memorized every inch of the silken length and stored it away. Sherlock let his thumb trace the dorsal vein that ran along the underside.

John's squirming became more restless, his legs pressed against Sherlock and then opened wider. His moans turned into soft cries of pleasure.

No longer able to resist, Sherlock took the head of John's cock into his mouth and traced his tongue along the opening of his foreskin to capture all the moisture that had collected there. The essence of John was now on the tip of Sherlock's tongue. His skin tasted clean, with hints of soap and salty pre-come. Sherlock swirled his tongue over the crown collecting more of it. He hummed his approval as he sucked harder.

John looked down, his eyes darkening as he watched Sherlock's mouth engulf the head of his cock.

"Christ, your fucking mouth. You're killing me."

His breaths became pants as Sherlock took more of his cock. Sherlock estimated John's length to be about 20 cm. He would need practice to take any more, but he was looking forward to it.

Sherlock stroked John's inner thighs, pushed them open. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked John's cock harder, taking him deeper. He wanted to feel the tip of John's cock in the back of his throat. John's hands fisted the sheets and he hips jerked as he resisted fucking Sherlock's mouth.

"Fuck, Sherlock. I want you inside of me." John grabbed his knees to hold himself open. Sherlock wrapped his hand around the base of John's prick and let go of it with his mouth. He pressed a kiss on top of the glans, flicking his tongue to catch the pearly bead that had welled up.

"I want you to come while I'm inside of you." He slowly climbed up the length of John's body, finally caging the smaller man.

Sherlock quickly searched under the pillow for the lube, catching John's eyes crinkling with amusement. His face and chest were flushed with a sheen of sweat.

"Do you usually sleep with lube under your pillow?" John's voice held laughter.

"Only when I sleep with you." He knelt up and held John's legs as he scooted back so he could open John with his tongue.

Sherlock licked a stripe from John's perineum to his coccyx. His hands went back to John's thighs to keep him still. The other man grabbed handfuls of the pillow his head rested on. His moans and cries punctuated each pass of Sherlock's tongue. He traced the furled bud of John's arsehole.

He felt the muscles of John's thighs quivering and pressed in closer, the scent of vanilla stronger. Sherlock wanted more. His tongue massaged the tight opening, insisting it let him in. He would never get enough of this.

The sensations were overwhelming, John's body shuddering from his touch, the sound of him in the throes of pleasure from what Sherlock was doing to him. Sherlock focused and plunged his tongue deeper. He traced the rim of John's arsehole over and over, then pressed back in. The muscle relaxed and opened for him, letting him in.

When he pulled back, his lips felt swollen and plush. He grabbed the lube and uncapped it with a click. Sherlock coated his index finger and slid it into John slowly, memorizing the feel of his finger sinking into his lover. He pulled it back and then thrusted forward, easing the muscles of John's sphincter into stretching and opening for him.

"More, I need more, please Sherlock." John babbled above him.

"Another finger John? Are you sure?" Sherlock drizzled more lube onto his middle finger.

"Yes. I'm bloody positive." John's voice was sharp but without a bite.

Sherlock tipped a corner of his mouth into a smirk and pressed two fingers into John, taking the moment to rub his lips over John's shaft. He peppered open mouth kisses along the hard length.

"Ready for another, John?"

Sherlock looked up. John had his arms crossed over his face and was biting his lip. His only response was a rocking of his hips, his body telling Sherlock yes. He pressed in a third finger, slowly pushing them in and out. He purposely ignored John's prostate, wanting to save that for when his cock was completely sheathed inside of him.

"Sherlock… fuckkk." John cried out. "Now! I'm ready, I want to feel your prick stretching me now." He grabbed a handful of Sherlock's hair and tugged.

Sherlock pulled his fingers out slowly and gently. It took all his control not to jerk them free so he could slam his cock in their place.

Sherlock's baritone rumbled from his chest. "Let go of my hair, John." Sherlock raised up, his eyes finding John's as he stood beside the bed.

He pushed his briefs down and off, kicking them away. His cock had never felt as hard as it did then. He picked up the bottle of lube and drizzled some onto his palm.

He watched John as he gave his prick two strokes covering it in the slippery substance. John closed his eyes and whined, his hands teased his own nipples. The sight urged Sherlock to move faster. He crawled back up onto the bed and positioned himself between John's spread legs. John's skin was flushed a deep red. Pre-come smeared across his belly when he moved.

Sherlock leaned down and ran his tongue across the smudge of John's tangy pre-come. Then he moved forward with languid grace to kiss John deeply. Sharing the taste of John between them.

When he wrapped his hand around his cock to steady it, sensation shot through his body like fire, the synapses in his brain shutting down from the overload. He whimpered at the almost painful pleasure.

He gave his length another quick tug, then gripped the base and lined up the head with John's stretched opening. He kissed John again, his tongue pushing into his mouth. John's tongue met his. They battled for a moment before Sherlock pressed into him, feeling the slick glide and stretch of John's arse as it accepted him inside.

Sherlock's mouth caught John's gasp. He wanted to keep it there on the tip of his tongue forever, but he returned it with a deep, throaty moan as the head of his cock breached John's sphincter.

"Bloody fuck, how you feel." John's voice sounded raspy as he spoke.

He tipped his hips up. Sherlock's hands slid to John's knees and pulled them higher. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist and crossed his ankles. Sherlock glanced down and saw how glorious it looked to have John wrapped around his cock. The sensation of John's tight passage pulling him deeper threatened to short-circuit any higher functioning part of Sherlock's mighty brain. Once he was buried completely inside his lover, he held there. He hungrily kissed John's mouth, sucking and biting his lips.

"Move, you can move, Sherlock. Do it." John's hands slipped across Sherlock's arms until they gripped his shoulders, John's short nails digging into his sweaty skin.

"You feel fantastic. I don't have words, John. My mind is nothing but you. How you feel." He pressed in deeper. "How you taste." He pulled back slowly. "How you sound as I fuck you." He surged forward harder. The angle was perfect, and he felt himself brush against John's prostate. Sherlock closed his eyes and focused on keeping the angle to maximize John's enjoyment.

John arched up; a silent cry caught on his lips. The cradle of his hips lifted Sherlock, their sweaty bodies sliding perfectly together.

"Oh John, you're so exquisite," Sherlock couldn't catch his breath, his hips snapping against John's.

"Harder, please. Harder, I need you harder."

John's hands smoothed down Sherlock's back until he could grab his arse and pull him in deeper. Sherlock lifted John's legs, so they rested across his forearms. He found a hard, driving pace. John grabbed at the headboard and held on, his body shaking with each thrust. Sherlock could feel the stickiness left by John's hard as steel cock as their abs slid against each other with each snap of his hips.

"Touch yourself, John. I want to see you."

John reached between them, his grip sure. He twisted his palm around the head of his cock on the upstroke; Sherlock tried to remember every detail for later, but his mind was going white around the edges. His pace faltered.

"YESSS, Oh S'Lock!" John's words coming out in a slur.

Sherlock felt John's orgasm ripple along his shaft as his body clenched around him. He continued thrusting through John's climax. The sound of his name uttered by John's sex rough voice and the slick press of their bodies were too much for Sherlock. Sex had never felt like this for Sherlock before; it was as if his orgasm started at the base of his mind and rushed like liquid fire down his spine. Each nerve ending exploded with bone-melting bliss.

It was better than the rush of adrenaline he felt flying over the rooftops of London. His brain scrambled to collect all the data flooding into his mind palace.

"John. Oh, my John." Sherlock whispered it, his brain shutting down as he let go of John's legs and rested his forehead on John's good shoulder. John wrapped his arms around him and held him.

"I've got you; you bloody brilliant git." John's voice sounded far away, although Sherlock could feel his breath brushing the wet strands of a curl across his forehead. "Just transport eh? You're crushing me."

Sherlock slowly pulled away, careful to ease off gently. John hissed as he pulled completely out. Sherlock sat back on his heels and traced John's dark pink rim with his thumb. He took visceral pleasure in watching his come dribble out.

"Oi, c'mere kiss me. Stop looking at the mess you made." John tried to school his face in mock disapproval, but his happy grin broke through, and he laughed.

"We need to get cleaned up. And we should sleep upstairs in your bed. It's clean." Sherlock kissed John's nose.

"Yes shower, maybe a cuppa, and then sleep. What a great ending to a long day." He pulled Sherlock closer for a deep kiss with open mouths, both of them fighting to nibble on each other's bottom lips.

Sherlock pulled away first. He left John sprawled across the bed and walked into the ensuite loo, purposely letting his hips roll a bit. He caught the small gasp that John made and smiled. Sherlock started the water and pulled out two fresh towels and flannels. He laid them on the sink and went back to John.

"C'mon, shower with me. I want to see how you smell with my body wash. It's an experiment." He held out his hand and felt John's fingers twine with his.

"An experiment, huh? I guess that's okay. You did just shag me into the mattress."

"I did. I intend to do it again. And I intend for you to fuck me over various surfaces in our flat. Also, I can think of at least 12 places in the Met that we could use for our sexual gratification." Sherlock's face felt relaxed, and he realized he was smiling.

"Let's keep it to the flat for now, alright, you madman?"

John stepped into the steamy shower stall and moaned with pleasure as the water slicked down his body.

"Downstairs as well? I rather enjoyed our time there before, John." Sherlock slotted himself behind John. Reveling in the hot, wet skin, he pressed against him tighter. He rested his head on John's right shoulder, keeping clear of the water spray. John leaned back. The steam hovered over them, reminding Sherlock of a cocoon. He could smell their scents combining; he felt his cock twitch when he caught his scent layered over the skin of John's neck. He licked it to keep it there.

He reached for his body wash and started to experiment on John.

John woke slowly. His mind floated to the surface of leftover dreams and sensations started to prickle into his sleepy brain. He was currently serving as the tree to his koala of a flatmate. Well, much more than a flatmate now, he thought happily. His lips twitched into a smile, and he felt how dry and chapped they were. John needed to get up; he had to use the loo, and he felt famished.

"C8H11No2," Sherlock mumbled, then snored a little.

John brushed the hair from his forehead. He leaned forward and sniffed, smelling Sherlock's shampoo and dreams. Sherlock rooted closer. He mumbled more unintelligible bits under his breath and pressed his morning erection into John's hip. John instantly remembered downstairs in 221C and how it felt to have Sherlock's cock in his mouth, how silky and hard he had been. He licked his chapped lips, the need for breakfast slowly fading as the need to wake Sherlock with his mouth took over.

"You're thinking too loud, John." Sherlock's sleepy voice murmured low in his ear. Then Sherlock nibbled his earlobe and gave it a tug.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean for my thoughts of your cock in my mouth to wake you up." The blood that had been rushing to his cock now diverted to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. "I just get up and direct my loud thoughts towards heading downstairs to Speedy's for breakfast. You're eating."

John pulled himself away from his starfish bedmate and walked into the loo. Sherlock protested weakly from the bed. John felt covered head to toe in delicious aches and pains from their lovemaking. He relieved himself, washed his hands and face. Then he brushed his teeth and strolled back into his room. Sherlock lay where he left him, his hair a riot of dark curls making a halo around his head. He was snuggled to John's pillow. John spotted one sleepy eye watching him.

He went to his bureau and pulled out jeans and a T-shirt. He turned his back to Sherlock and slowly pulled the jeans up, buttoning them before he turned around. Holding his T-shirt in his hand, he smiled down at Sherlock.

"I just want eggs. No tomatoes," Sherlock grumbled. "Oh, and toast." Another grumble. "You didn't put on pants, John."

This time, he raised his head to examine John's jeans. He lifted his hand to trace the curve and bulge of John's cock. John stepped back, shook his head and playfully wagged his finger at him. Sherlock dropped his arm with a pout.

"I'll see you downstairs in 15 minutes." John smacked Sherlock's sheet covered arse and headed downstairs.

It took twenty minutes because he had to stop and talk to Mrs. Hudson, who was beside herself with joy over the noises she'd heard the night before.

"I made Banoffee pie, John. It's Sherlock's favorite. He's going to need his calories, I think." She smiled again at John, who stood on the first step in the entry way. "Let me just get it, and you can take it up. I don't want to walk in on anything you boys are getting up to."

When the word 'up' left her mouth, both she and John turned violent shades of red. She shut her mouth with a snap, ran inside her flat, and reappeared holding a pie.

"Ta, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure he'll love this." He climbed the stairs and opened the door to find Sherlock in his chair. His hair was a mess, curls everywhere. He wore his pajama bottoms, but the shirt he wore made John wrinkle his forehead, torn between laughter and besotted amusement.

"Where did you get that shirt?" John stacked the containers on the kitchen table and started to make them plates.

"It's yours. I don't even know who this is." He motioned to the beautiful woman on his shirt.

"That's Sade. Where did you get it?"

"From your dresser. What is it, John?" Sherlock's sounded frustrated. He stood up and stalked towards John.

"I think it's Harry's. I don't have a Sade shirt."

"Harry? Your sister, Harry?" The range of emotions that crossed Sherlock's face amazed John. He watched as Sherlock pulled the shirt off and threw it across the room. "I only want to wear your shirts."

John pulled his shirt off. Sherlock took it and slipped it on.

Suddenly, there was stomping up the stairs, and Lestrade busted in holding a folder. Tired eyes looked for the coffee he apparently smelled on his way up. Instead, he caught sight of a shirtless John and a messy-headed Sherlock wearing a Jam shirt inside out.

"Case, Gwen? Excellent." Sherlock snatched the folder and charged into his room to change.

"Coffee?" John offered him a paper cup. Greg took it. John piled eggs on toast so he could eat something on the way to wherever they were headed.

"Gwen? I know he's taking the piss. Does he even know who the Jam are, John?"

Lestrade peered at him, his face tired but his dark brown eyes sparkling. John just shrugged. He took a bite of his breakfast and smiled. Who cared if it looked a bit smug?


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Brilliant Adventure

They arrived on the scene to utter chaos. Donovan was nowhere to be found, Anderson, in his blue paper coveralls, walked about muttering orders that everyone ignored.

John wasn't scheduled to work, but he arrived with Sherlock and his work bag. The photographer on call was Chip King. He was currently taking a picture of the new constable Marla. As Lestrade entered she blushed and attempted to act busy, but it was obvious she had just been posing against the breakfast nook. She knocked a stack of papers off the table and bent over quickly to pick them up. The click and flash of King's camera filled the room, an awkward silence in its wake. Marla's big brown eyes lingered on Sherlock as she buttoned the top button of her uniform that had come "undone." Her blushed deepened and she hurried outside.

Sherlock grunted in disgust and shook his head as he bypassed the other constables and made a beeline for the dead body. John smiled fondly at Sherlock's retreating form and followed.

"Oi! What the bloody hell is going on?" Lestrade's voice cut through the murmuring in the room. Anderson immediately rushed over and started to present a list of grievances. Greg sighed and held up his hand to silence Anderson.

"John, can you take pictures? I'm sending King off the scene. Sherlock don't touch anything." Lestrade motioned for King to come over to him. He spoke quietly, but John couldn't mistake the annoyance that highlighted Greg's features. King nodded and kept his eyes downcast. The colour slowly drained from King's face as Greg continued talking.

"I hope we won't have to discuss this again?" Greg voice carried through the house so everyone would hear the note of warning it held.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, Sir." King stuffed his camera into his bag and exited the house as fast as he could, dodging the crowd that had formed around the front door.

John stood stock still for a moment. His hand resting on his carrier bag. He slowly pivoted on his foot, the muscle memory of the army almost making him smile. He took in the whole scene in front of him. The body of a woman lay in front of a wall, her skin bright pink. The wall was covered in painted words, that had dried in sloppy drips. The wall to the left of the victim had a large brick fireplace.

There was an appalling ugly couch. It was covered in abstract shapes in primary colours. It clashed with everything else in the room. John would have to photograph it top to bottom. The entire thing was covered in mysterious stains. He almost felt sorry for Anderson, who would have to take samples of all of it.

John slipped black latex gloves from his bag and pulled them on. While he was a photographer now, his years of training made it almost impossible for him to not check for a pulse or other simple signs of life. The angle of the victim's neck was wrong.

As he knelt down to check, he heard the whispery paper sound of Anderson approaching.

"No need to check Watson, I've already done _MY_ job." He glared at John and then Sherlock, who quietly studied the wall covered in script. "There is another body in the bedroom. Maybe you should take your pictures so we can finally move the bodies."

"Sherlock, she's too rosy. Her body is cold, and rigour has set. I'm going to say this is carbon monoxide poisoning." John stood slowly, his eyes looking for vents, finally resting on the fireplace. "I think it's the firepl.."

Anderson cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. He motioned for John to go into the bedroom.

"Of course, it's carbon monoxide poisoning. I've already marked it down. Same as the other one." Anderson flashed his clipboard towards John. Lestrade strode in muttering under his breath with a set scowl on his face. The lines around his mouth edged deeper.

John's voice barely contained his anger. "CMP might be primary cause of death, but that is not the only thing wrong with the body."

All the movement in the room stopped. Sherlock broke the spell by turning around. He raised an eyebrow and looked at John.

"Her neck's broken. Bad job of it. It paralysed her but didn't kill her straight out." Another about face and he strode towards the hallway, yanking his camera out.

John strained for a moment to hear if anything was said in his wake, but all he heard was Sherlock's bark of laughter and Anderson's whinge in response. Sherlock's laughter eased some of his anger. The door to the bedroom was open, the body of a large man lay sprawled on the floor. He was naked except for a pair of plain white cotton pants. John took pictures of the air vents, noticing the dusty grey discoloration around it. Smoke might have travelled through the whole house, although there should be more signs than that.

Finally, John knelt by the body. His skin was not as pink as the other victim. He pressed his fingers into the thick, muscular neck. His latex gloves were thinner than department issue, and he immediately felt the man's body heat seconds before he felt the pulse.

"MEDIC!" John screamed. He pulled the man onto his back and checked for blocked or obstructed airways.

"What are you on about, Watson?" Anderson's nasal, annoyed voice floated down the hallway towards him.

"You complete wanker! You didn't check for vitals, did you?!"

The man was breathing and had a sound and steady pulse. John looked up as Anderson came into the room. It happened in a moment, a strong hand came up and grabbed John by the back of his neck. He squawked in surprise and Anderson's eyes went comically large as the dead man stood, dragging John with him.

"Backup..." Anderson stuttered.

"Get out of my way." The hand gripped John's neck tightly. Blinding pain filled John's bad left shoulder as the man grabbed it with his free hand and twisted it back. "March it, shorty."

Anderson turned and bolted down the hallway, his paper clad feet slipping and sending him sprawling in front of Lestrade, who pulled his weapon on reflex.

John smiled grimly at Anderson and mentally promised him a broken nose as soon as he could deliver it. At the end of the hallway, the not so dead man jerked them to a halt. John made eye contact with Sherlock, who stood next to the ugly couch. He held his micro magnifying glass in his hand, forgotten. John relished the shocked expression that appeared on Sherlock's face for a moment before he shuttered it away. More constables entered the house reacting to the commotion.

"Make a path, I'm leaving, and I'm taking shorty here with me. I'll let him go once I know none of you coppers have followed us." He twisted John's arm for emphasis. Fresh agony burst from John's shoulder, traveling like a current of pain the length of his arm. His free hand started to visibly tremble and he made a fist to hide it.

John refused to make a sound but beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Black dots danced across his vision and John worried he might faint from the pain.

"You closed the flue on the fireplace to make it look like an accident. Why did you break your wife's neck?" Sherlock's voice sounded calm, but John could see the grim set of his features. His eyes narrowed as he took every aspect of the scene. He resembled a predatory cat, looking for a weak spot to strike.

"She just got crazier and crazier. In here talking about Drarry this and Drarry that. She wrote some gay sex thing on my fuckin living room wall." His palm felt sweaty against the nape of John's neck.

John Watson had survived his older sister, gone to war, and survived that too. There were moments that people underestimated him, and he accepted that. He couldn't move forward without breaking his arm, but that didn't meant he couldn't go backwards. Grandma MacIver—or Granny Mac as only John was allowed to address her—always claimed that Watson's had unusually thick skulls. It was time that this thick headed Watson introduced his skull to the arsehole's jaw.

He whipped his head back as hard and fast as he could. The muscles in his bad shoulder screamed, causing neon lights to flash behind his closed lids. That was replaced by a sharp pain that became a dull ache at the back of his head.

The suspect let go of John to clutch at his bleeding mouth and scream about police brutality. Lestrade pounced on him and handcuffed him with swift, well-practised movements. The constables at the door rushed in to offer assistance as well.

John stumbled a few feet and Sherlock was suddenly there, leading him to sit on the edge of the coffee table.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock's hands hovered over him. "I think your scalp his bleeding."

"I believe he bit me." John felt a lightness in his chest, the usual giddiness that fluttered in after the rush of adrenaline.

"He bit you?" Amusement and annoyance warred across Sherlock's face, his lips curled in a snarl and he shook his head. "We need to have that disinfected as soon as we return to the flat. We should possibly boil it as well."

"Ta, for that, but you know you can't boil my head." John gave Sherlock's hand a pat as it passed over his shoulder.

Anderson ambled over, the knees of his overalls shredded. He looked shell shocked.

"You fucking fuck. Why didn't you check that tosser for vitals?" John tensed to stand up, but Sherlock's hand nudged him back down.

"I'm sorry John, I thought..." Anderson's eyes caught Sherlock's hand rubbing a smoothing circle on John's shoulder. He stopped talking and looked as if he tasted something disgusting. He opened his mouth to continue to talk, but Sherlock cut him off.

"My brother is going to send you to Siberia. For once, I'm in agreement. Enjoy getting transferred to a yurt in a snowbank." Sherlock spoke through a clenched jaw.

"What? He can't do that! We all make mistakes." Anderson floundered. Sally walked in holding a fresh cup of coffee, looking curious until her eyes fell on the three men. She visibly gripped her cup harder, her pumps clicking on as she stomped over.

"What's going on, Freak?"

"Anderson didn't check the vitals on a body who turned out to be the murderer." Sherlock pointed to the dead woman. "He almost got John and Lestrade killed. I was just informing him that my brother takes an evil overlord's kind of joy in sending people to Siberia when they almost get his husband killed." Sherlock's eyes took in Sally's appearance and his snarl turned into a grim smile.

"You pulled an all-nighter after date night, Sally. Those shoes aren't your usual dull work shoes. Your clothes are rumpled, and you have on more makeup than usual. Cheating on Phill here?" Sherlock finished his statement by pulling his phone from his pocket and taking a picture of Anderson and Donovan staring at each other. Anderson's mouth was slightly open. John decided that he was still going to break his nose, but it could wait. This scene was much too fascinating to watch.

"Sally, where the fuck were you? I left you in charge. We're going to have a long chat about this back at the yard." Lestrade's usual air of overworked civil servant was replaced with tense lines and anger. Sally gaped at Greg, her mouth open in surprise. Sherlock quickly pocketed his phone.

"John, are you alright? The medic thinks you broke that wanker's jaw. You have a hard head there, mate." Greg put his hand on John's left shoulder and pulled it back as John flinched. "Sorry, I forgot. Do you need a medic?"

John shook his head. He slowly rolled his shoulders.

"What's all this?" He pointed to the wall. He hated the attention that was currently on him; it held hints of pity.

"It's fanfiction. By someone named Morgan Elektra. I believe it's from that wizard movie you like." Sherlock held up a printed piece of paper. John took it from him and scanned it.

"Oh hey, I've read a few of her stories. She has some wickedly hot werewolf porn." He stopped and looked up slowly.

"Werewolf porn, John?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smiled.

"So, this was hers?" He giggled softly. "I ship Drarry too." John put the paper down on the table and stood up.

"Can you call someone else to take pictures? I'd like to go home and ice my arm." He glared at Anderson as he spoke the last part.

"Harry and Draco aren't meant to be a couple, or the writer would've written it that way. I hate when people do that." Anderson muttered, forcing himself into topics that didn't concern him, as usual.

"I'm sure you're against happiness and kittens too, you fucking prick. You drop the ball like that again, and you'll have a goddamn bloody nose to go with your snow gear." John handed his camera to Lestrade and pushed past Sally. The pain that currently buzzed in his arm felt more and more like angry wasps and less like pins and needles. He wanted to take something and relax it before his showing.

"Fuck." He muttered. He looked over at the people in the room and kept his mouth shut. He'd ask Sherlock about coming to his gallery show later. Maybe send Lestrade a text. No way he wanted Sally and Anderson to think they were invited.

Greg handed the camera to Sally and nodded a goodbye to John. Sherlock just stomped past him, his coat flaring out as he went. That view was the main reason John followed Sherlock around so much. Long and lean, the riot of dark curls and that coat flapping like a hero's cape.

"Coming, John?" Sherlock was almost to the street, to the taxi that magically appeared just for him.

"Right behind you." John walked faster to catch up.

John relaxed in the comfortable silence that engulfed them on the ride home. Sherlock had moved his hand closer to his and let his pinky crossover John's. They were almost to Baker Street. John's shoulder ached, but his head felt okay. He peered out at the blurred scenes of London and plucked up his nerves a bit.

John cleared his throat, licked his lips, and turned his head to look at the man sitting next to him in the cab. He ignored the sting that radiated from the back of his skull. "Sherlock, I was wondering, if you would like to be my date tomorrow night?"

"A date, John? Haven't we already passed that dull social construct?" Sherlock shifted in his seat. He tapped his fingers on his knees. He spotted John watching him and stopped, his fingers tugging sharply on his shirt cuffs.

"Well. Perhaps. But this won't be your average date." John took a deep breath, wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, and blurted out, "I'm having a showing of my photographs tomorrow, and I'd like it if you'd come. That's the interview I went on."

"Of course, John. I admire your work." Sherlock looked over at John and gave him a small smile, barely a twitch of his lips. His eyes sparkled with something that John couldn't place.

They pulled in front of Baker Street and John climbed out first. John heard Sherlock speak to the driver and turned back. Sherlock stayed seated. He smirked at John and grabbed the handle of the door to pull it shut.

"I need to run an errand. I'll be back in a bit. I'll bring home milk." Sherlock called out before the cab door latched.

Before John could utter a surprised bark of laughter at the idea of Sherlock bringing home milk, the cab was gone.

John opened the front door but paused before he went upstairs. He knocked on Mrs Hudson's door. She answered, her face lighting up when she saw John.

"Oh, hello dear." She tilted her head to the side, her mouth turning up in a smile as she waited for John to speak.

"Hello, Mrs H. I was wondering if you wanted to come to a showing of my photographs. It's at the Sawyer Gallery, tomorrow. You can ride with Sherlock and me. I know it's short notice. I'm covering for another artist who cancelled. It's very small." He shifted his weight from side to side.

"I'd love to, dear! I'm sure it will be lovely. No need to be so nervous about it." She straightened the collar of John's shirt.

"Well, you see Mrs H, I'm using a lot of pictures of Sherlock. In fact, I included some that I took a few days ago. I'm worried he'll be upset." John bit his bottom lip and looked down at his shoes.

"Oh, he'll love it. Don't worry about it, John." She patted his arm. "I'll make you a nice cuppa and bring it up, okay?"

"Oh, that would be great. Had a bit of a tumble at the last crime scene. I need to take a shower, so just let yourself in, yeah?" He thought about all the prints he still had to work on and tried not to go colly wobbles over it.

"You boys worry me so. Always getting hurt on your adventures. I see the blood on your collar. You go up and shower, and I'll look at that when you get out. No arguments, young man. Now go." She made a shooing gesture with her hand, and John smiled at her.

"Yes, Mrs H. I'll see you a bit." He went up the stairs, making mental lists and hoping the courier would be here soon with the paperwork from Sarah. "Mrs Hudson! A messenger is coming with paperwork, will you sign for it? He waited at the top of the stairs.

"Yes, of course! Now shower!"

"Thank you!" John unlocked the flat and went back to his mental lists.

Sherlock opened the door and scanned the entry way, making sure the door to C was closed. Just as he predicted, John was in C working, the red cloth on the doorknob. He grabbed his bags and thundered up the stairs to put them in his closet. He shucked off his Belstaff and hung it on the hook.

His sheets were in a state. He pulled them off, wadded them into a ball, and tossed them in the general direction of his hamper. Thankfully, he had a clean set in the linen closet. He didn't want to sleep in John's smaller bed again tonight.

He hid the new clothes for tomorrow's date carefully, so John wouldn't spot anything if he left the door open.

When John had told him about his erotic dream, he made a mental note to find a waistcoat that matched. John's showing was a perfect reason to wear it. Since it was their first official date, he wanted to surprise John. His phone buzzed his text alert.

 **I'm lonely. I know you're upstairs. -JW**

Sherlock leant against his bed, and pursed his lips. He finally gave in and smiled.

 **I'm making up my bed. Yours is too hard. How's your head/arm? -SH**

 **Did you tell Lestrade about tomorrow? -SH**

 **No, I haven't. Do you think he'd want to come? Everything is fine. I took a paracetamol. -JW**

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 **Yes, he considers you a friend. He will bring Mycroft with him. -SH**

 **Maybe you should just forget I said anything.-SH**

He opened another text window.

 **John has a gallery opening tomorrow. You should attend. -SH**

 **Really? Where?**

 **I'm sure my brother knows where. See you tomorrow, Gwen. -SH**

A few minutes passed as Sherlock finished making up the bed.

 **Stop calling Greg Gwen. -JW**

Sherlock laughed out loud.

 **I don't know what you're talking about. -SH**

 **Angelo's for dinner tonight? Might have a candle for us. -SH**

 **Sure, I'll be up in a mo. -JW**

He sent a text off to Greg. His forehead crinkled as he smiled, imagining the gray-haired DI getting annoyed.

 **Stop texting John, Giles. -SH**

 **Brother mine, you're tiresome. Felicitations to you and John. -MH**

 **Piss off. -SH**

He waited for a few beats and sent another text.

 **Thank you. -SH**

Then deleted the whole thread from his phone and his mind palace as well.

They arrived back at Baker Street after a lovely meal at Angelo's. Sherlock was secretly glad that John insisted on idly tracing on the back of his hand during dinner. Angelo beamed at them when he saw. He was so beside himself he brought them another candle.

"I have a gift for you, Sherlock. Let me run up to my room and get it."

Sherlock hung up his coat. He smiled at John and motioned for him to give him his jacket.

"Ta, here take this too, I need to plug it in." He handed over his cellphone.

"I'll handle it. I'm surprised you know how to charge it." Sherlock enjoyed this casual teasing, which had been present from day one in their friendship. He basked for a moment in the feeling of it.

John's phone played an instrumental piece of music. When he first heard it, John told him it was a song by David Bowie. Not that he would admit to John, but Sherlock looked up Bowie afterwards and had enjoyed the man's artistic ability and composition. Sherlock hung up John's jacket and looked at the phone. Message from an unknown number. His brow crinkled as he went through the list of who it could be.

Wrong number?

Moran?

He unlocked the phone and opened the message. It was from Moran.

 **I keep thinking of you. Please reconsider the job. You'd love it.**

Sherlock fought every urge to text back, telling Moran to stop, but he knew that would be a bit not good to John. He debated for a moment and finally plugged in the phone.

Another alert. Sherlock looked, he couldn't help himself.

 **We can be like this again.**

 **img.4518**

The photo loaded and it was a wallet; in the plastic picture holder was an old worn photograph. A much younger John Watson smiled at the camera, his arm around Sebastian Moran. There was tension, but they had never been lovers. Moran looked more stern in the photo than when he stood in the sitting room of Baker Street. The background was sprawling desert and a Humvee.

Sherlock locked the phone again and left it on the table. He went into his room, his mind reeling with data. He stood in his mind palace, at the door to John's room. The room had expanded several times since yesterday.

At this rate, the John Watson Wing would be installed by the weekend. Sherlock registered another alert from John's phone and then another. He ignored them. He unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it off and tossing it towards the bag he used for his laundry. He heard the water gurgling in the old pipes and deduced that John was preparing for bed. Sherlock's bed, in his room. That thought made his shoulders relax a bit.

He pulled on John's shirt from this morning and his favourite pyjama bottoms. He climbed onto the bed and stretched out.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tracked the noises John made as he moved through the flat. By the way John's steps sounded, he knew the man was currently barefoot; he could hear the soft thumps with each step.

The sounds stopped in the kitchen. He heard the shuffling of paper; Sherlock deduced that John was rifling through the mail Mrs Hudson had left earlier. Then he heard the light suction sound as John opened the fridge and took something out. Sherlock smiled when he heard John pull a plate out of the cabinet and the clink of Huddes's pie plate. John dropped the knife into the sink and drew the plate across the table and started his walk down the hallway to Sherlock's bedroom. Just outside the door, John muttered a curse, nudged the door open with his elbow, and came inside. He was scowling at his phone.

John gave his phone one last mutinous glance and looked up at Sherlock; immediately his face lost the edge of anger. His eyes softened, and he licked his lips.

He also had Sherlock's record under his arm.

"You look comfortable up there." John wore a pair of red pants and a plain grey vest.

"Red?" Sherlock lifted his eyebrow at him.

"I had them on all night." John raised his eyebrow back at Sherlock. "You know that I collect vinyl. My Dad bought me my first one when I was a kid. It's special to me, something we shared together." He blushed slightly at the memory. "I had this made for you."

Sherlock knew that John's father was an alcoholic who had died young, but he didn't know all the details because John had never shared them. He could wait. Harry was also an alcoholic, and he was aware of how much John worried about her following in their Dad's footsteps.

"OK, so this is a recording of a murder. It's unsolved. It's the ultimate in closed door case. I have a friend who is a crazy collector of phonograph cylinders. He doesn't care what is on them, and I knew he had this." Sherlock watched as John tossed his phone onto the bed and picked up Sherlock's record player from the floor.

John inspected the portable player. "This looks brand new. Glad you have one though, I didn't want to drag mine downstairs."

Sherlock kept his mouth closed tight and gave John a small nod.

John carefully put the player on Sherlock's bedside table and placed the record with the label facing down. He lowered the needle to the record and turned it on.

"So this conductor is in the middle of doing his thing, and a shot rings out. He drops dead. The police at the time couldn't pin it on any single person. The entire orchestra were suspects. There wasn't a single other person in the building."

Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to the crackle and pop of the record. It was a horrible recording. They began playing a piece by Wagner.

"I love Wagner," Sherlock muttered.

"I recorded the cylinder to my phone and then emailed it to a friend who put the recording as is first, then he separated the layers and then last he did a digital clean up."

Sherlock turned to John, who sat crossed legged on his bed. He took a bite of pie and then offered another forkful to Sherlock.

"I love Mrs Hudson's banoffee." He took the bite and savoured the taste. "Thank you for this gift John, it's amazing. This is Tristan Tanzer, isn't it? Around 1910?"

John shook his head, a large smile forming on his lips.

"You're bloody brilliant. Yes, it is. Think you can solve it?" He took another bite and then gave the plate to Sherlock.

"Obviously. What's on the other side?" Sherlock licked the fork clean of whipped topping and noticed John's gaze on his mouth.

"Um, I recorded you a few times. It's you playing on the other side."

"Oh. Thank you, John. I… this is a good... Gift." Sherlock felt his cheeks heat. He sat up straighter against the headboard of the bed.

John leant over and looked intently into Sherlock's eyes. He gave Sherlock that half grin, the one that John only used when Sherlock was amusing him. He watched as John licked his lips and waited, his eyes not wavering.

"You could meet me halfway, you lanky git." John reached over and tugged on Sherlock's shirt.

"I might be amenable." Sherlock kept his face serious and he pushed away from the headboard. He stopped right before their lips were touching.

"Could be dangerous." John whispered across Sherlock's lips.

"Yet here we are."

John cupped his jaw and kissed him, nibbling Sherlock's bottom lip a little. John's mouth tasted like pie and Sherlock nipped back. They pulled apart with sleepy grins.

With a yawn, John scooted around to lay down properly. He rested his head on Sherlock's thigh.

"Is this ok? I won't bother you while you work on your record?" John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes looked more cerulean in this lighting then their usual cobalt. Sherlock had noticed so far that John's eyes would change shades of blue depending on mood and the ambient light. Four shades so far. He would keep track for future reference.

Sherlock memorised everything about this moment. The way John's mouth was so sweet and how John's body fit perfectly next to his. Their combined scents mingling with the clean sheets made Sherlock melt back into the pillows. He looked down once more to check on the wound on the back of John's head. It was small enough to hide under his hair.

"Goodnight, love." John yawned again.

"John. I am happy to pursue a sexual relationship with you. However, I am not a love. If you call me sweetie, dear, darling or any other horrible term of endearment that you've foisted onto your girlfriends in your horrible poetic emails, I'll have to investigate your murder." Sherlock let out an exaggerated sigh and scraped the fork across the plate loudly.

"Right. Ok, fine. Goodnight, arsehole." John put his hand on Sherlock's thigh and squeezed.

"Goodnight, idiot." Sherlock put the plate down beside the record player and rested a hand on John's shoulder gently.

"Wanker," John mumbled. Sherlock could hear the sleepy laugh.

"Tosser." He huffed back.

"I'm going to sleep now." John burrowed in closer to stress the point and gave Sherlock's thigh a playful bite.

"Of course, numpty. Goodnight."

Sherlock waited a few minutes and then peeked down. John's eyes were closed. He looked very peaceful and happy. Sherlock smiled and added the image with the rest, into John's room in his mind palace. Then he started the record back to the beginning and listened carefully.

Never had he received such a perfect gift.


	8. Chapter 8

Shape of my Heart

Pale yellow morning light limned the edge of Sherlock's slate grey drapes. John closed his eyes, letting the illumination filter through his lids as he stretched to test the mobility of his shoulder. The usual ache had been replaced with a more constant throb. John didn't want to get up; he snuggled into the charcoal coloured sheets. The scents of Sherlock and banoffee pie complimented each other and John smiled into the pillow.

His hand roamed to the empty spot next to him. The posh Egyptian cotton felt cool to the touch. Sherlock hadn't been in bed for hours.

Deciding his bladder needed some attention, he staggered into the loo. Whenever his shoulder acted up, he felt all the other joints in his body more acutely. He listened to the creaks as he walked. After his usual daily ablutions were completed, he felt more awake and ventured into the kitchen for a cuppa. He was pleased to see the kitchen table clear of its usual mess of experiments, ready for a morning spread. John filled the kettle with water and turned it on. He opened the designated "clean" cupboard and picked the two mugs closest to him.

The kitchen partition was closed. John couldn't hear any movement in the next room. Sherlock was either off somewhere or being incredibly quiet. He slid the partition open and peaked into the sitting room.

Sherlock sat on the middle cushion of the couch. His hair seemed more wild than usual when held down by the band of his headphones. The record player sat in front of him. Sherlock had his hands steepled under his nose in his usual mind palace pose.

"Good morning." John called out and waited for a response. Sherlock continued to stare at the spinning black record. John went back to fixing tea and decided he needed toast as well.

Alexandre Stern honey on Sherlock's toast was a guaranteed way to pull the genius out of his mind palace. Sherlock considered it playing dirty, but to John, a man had to do what a man had to do.

John pulled the toast from the toaster and buttered it carefully, making sure to touch each corner. He uncapped the jar of honey as precisely as he had seen the bomb guys work with IEDs in the war. He personally didn't care for the posh stuff Sherlock loved. He grew up with the stuff that came in the plastic bear, but the Stern honey was a mixture of different types. Sherlock insisted he could taste each region of France were the honey had been collected. John tried it once and found it cloyingly sweet with a burnt bitter aftertaste that he didn't care for.

He dipped Sherlock's favourite teaspoon into the clear, dark amber coloured honey. He drizzled it on the toast and then dipped the spoon again and placed the loaded spoon into Sherlock's mug.

John inserted more bread into the toaster for himself. Once it was done, he smeared some blackcurrant jam on it without a fraction of the care he showed Sherlock's. He licked at a bit of jam that ended up on his finger, the tart fruit awakening his taste buds and making his stomach growl. Then he hefted the tray and carried it all into the living room.

Sherlock hadn't moved an inch. John stirred the teaspoon in Sherlock's mug loudly.

"You used the Le Miel des Merveilles?" Sherlock blinked at John and then at his cup. He removed the headphones and laid them on his lap.

"Ah, there you are. Good morning. Tea and toast?" He gave the teaspoon a single tap on the rim of the mug.

"I'm on a case. Food slows me down, John. You know this." Sherlock kept his eyes on the toast with its melted butter and glistening honey streaks.

"I'll just toss it then. No harm." John took a bite of his own toast, moaning loudly as he did.

"I need to go to the Met and research some old files pertaining to this case." Sherlock switched the record player off and dropped the headphones onto the table next to it. He stood up, ran his hands through his hair.

"You are a cruel man, John." He picked up his tea, blew across the top and took a sip. "Mmmm, a very horrible partner, who I will have to punish as soon as I solve this case."

"Later, after the showing you can punish me, yeah?"

"Count on it." Sherlock picked up his toast and took a large bite. By the time he finished the first slice he could not hide his pleased smile. As soon as the last bite passed his lips he stood and rushed into the bedroom to change so he could go to the Met.

John picked up the book he had started last week, but his mind was all over the place. He set his book down across the arm of his chair. He checked his phone and sent a text to his sister Harry.

He ignored the feeling of sadness that crept in as he waited for her reply. Harry was the catalyst for all of this, each picture he took in a way he felt grateful to her. He remembered her that morning, before he left for training. Her blonde hair pulled into a braid. The sun had glinted on the crown of her head and John remembered squinting against the shine. She had insisted that he find the beauty in the world around him so he wouldn't grow bitter. John had wanted to take a picture of her when she said that. He wanted to remember her forever that morning, with her good intentions, he had felt that maybe they both escaped their childhood. Even as children they were polar opposites. John had escaped their abusive alcoholic father by enlisting. She hadn't escaped, she had followed in his footsteps.

Now, the subject of her drinking problem always felt like an unspoken fight between them. She assumed he was checking her for signs of drunkenness and he was usually just thankful to see her. He recognised the ebb and flow of her behaviours by now and the silence that met his text message meant that she was likely drinking again. She would not be returning his text today, or anytime soon. He sighed.

Sherlock sauntered out of the bedroom dressed, as usual, in a bespoke suit. He stood at the door, pulling on his Belstaff and watching John carefully.

"I shouldn't be long. What will you do today?"

"I'm going to relax. I'm feeling very lazy." John gathered everything up on the tray and took it back into the kitchen.

"Do you require my company for this, John?" Sherlock had followed him into the kitchen and stood just behind him. John could smell the layers of Sherlock and London that seemed trapped in that Belstaff coat even after it returned from the cleaners.

"No, go solve your present. It's about time someone did. I'll see you when you get home and then maybe we can be lazy together on the couch." John turned and kissed Sherlock chastely on the lips.

Sherlock hummed against John's mouth. Then he pulled back and wrapped his scarf around his neck. With a boyish grin that made the blue in his eyes stand out, Sherlock was out the door and stomping down the stairs.

John shook his head fondly, feeling a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He puttered around the flat for a bit, trying to focus on tidying up. John gave up and ventured into the kitchen to wash up their morning dishes. The sink filled up quickly with hot soapy suds. He reached in, grabbed a mug, and began scrubbing. The repetitive motion was soothing, and soon all the dishes were washed and drying on the rack.

In the other room, John's phone rang. He dried his hands and checked it, wondering if it was Sherlock already, worried it was Sebastian again.

 **John, can you come in early? I need your input on the arrangement.**

It was from Sarah. His stomach lurched. He bit is lip and replied.

 **No problem. How early? -JW**

 **Right now? If possible.**

 **Sure, I'll be there in 30 minutes. -JW**

John took a deep breath and exhaled through his mouth. What was he going to wear? He dashed upstairs to his room, taking the steps two at a time, opened his dresser, and began to pull out his favourite t-shirts.

"Fuck. I can't wear this. None of this. Why didn't I buy a new suit or something?" John muttered under his breath. He had a black sports coat he supposed he could wear.

He barked a laugh as he realised he was holding a second Sade t-shirt.

"Geez, Harry, have a crush?" John folded it and stuffed it back into the open drawer.

His hand landed on soft cotton. It was his black, vintage David Bowie t-shirt.

" _Yes_!"

John laid it out on the bed and grabbed his newest pair of dark Levi's. He had bought them recently and hadn't worn them yet. They were tighter than his usual corduroys. They would work for tonight, he decided.

He grabbed the rest of his clothes, jogged downstairs to use the bigger loo, and laid his clothes out carefully on Sherlock's bed. He realised he was still gripping his phone in his sweaty hand.

John opened Sherlock's text message.

 **I need to go in early. Can you come with Mrs Hudson at 5? -JW**

John gave his clothes another look and realised he'd forgotten pants. He opened Sherlock's top dresser drawer and was happy to see the black La Perla neatly folded on top. Thankfully, Sherlock's pants were not indexed like his socks. John rushed into the loo and started the shower. He didn't have much time, but thankfully he'd learned to take two-minute showers in the army.

After a quick wash and rinse, John went back into Sherlock's room wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. His phone beeped.

 **Ok. We'll see you tonight. -SH**

 **It was the cellist, E. Morrigan. She's dead now of course, but I'm certain she did it. I'm certain he deserved it. -SH**

 **She was having an affair with a flautist. Kara Wallace. -SH**

John paused in drying off, his eyebrows raised as he read it. Of course, Sherlock could figure all that out.

 **Did You get all that from the recording? Brilliant. -JW**

 **No. It was in the statements given to the police. -SH**

 **Still Brilliant. -JW**

 **Get dressed John. -SH**

John tossed his phone onto his bed and got dressed.

The gallery was located on a corner of a small square. The building was rather old and the brick facade gave it a serious air that John liked. The entire bottom floor had large windows that allowed the perfect amount of fading sunlight in. Inside Sarah's gallery was very neutral to keep the focus on the art and not the decor. Old fashioned bare light bulbs hung from cords, and they reminded John of something he had seen on a steampunk website once. Otherwise, the whole first floor was nothing but glass and wall space.

John stood in the back where a small bar was located, waiting for people to show up. It gave him a perfect view of the whole room. He tried to double check his reflection in the nearest window glass, but the setting sun made him squint. He had run some of Sherlock's gel through his hair and now he wasn't sure if he looked good or like a prat.

"You look like I did the first time my work was shown." Sarah handed him a glass of champagne and tilted her head, a little frown on her face. "Don't worry; we pre-sold a lot of tickets. They did a write-up on us in the Style section of the Wednesday paper."

John felt his stomach drop and he downed his entire glass of champagne.

"In the paper?" The words felt stuck in his throat.

"Yes. You'll do fine. Most of the time people want to do all the talking. Just nod your head and smile." She took a sip of her drink and looked around the gallery. John had decided on simple black frames for all the pictures.

In the beginning, they arranged all the pictures he had taken while in Afghanistan. Sunsets, villages, children playing, and his friends. Those brave men who John never wanted to forget.

Then the pictures changed, to London. The ones he took when he first got home were dark, and sombre. Sharp angles of buildings, dark alleyways, and graffiti. The back of the gallery had some of the pictures he snuck while on crime scenes, shots of Regent's Park, and candid photos of those closest to him.

His eyes travelled to one of Mrs Hudson, her head back in a laugh caught forever, her floral house dress filled with colour and her hand on Sherlock's arm. He wasn't in the picture, but John remembered that day so clearly. It was a few days after the fishmonger case and Sherlock had just given her a blow by trout blow of his narrow escape from bodily harm.

Next to it was a picture of Mycroft and Greg. They stood side by side, Mycroft's face serious, but Greg was smiling. They both watched the other out of the corner of their eye. Greg held his usual paper cup of bad coffee, and Mycroft had a hand on his brelly. John had caught them one night when Mycroft had come to check on his husband, who was working too many hours straight.

The last part of the collection was all Sherlock.

Sherlock asleep on the couch, his violin cradled in his arms, his hair glinting with drops of rain. He had finished a long and exhausting case and had just passed out tuning his violin.

The next photo was of Sherlock in the alleyway the night of their first case together. He was just a black blur of a swirling coat. A silhouette against the dimly lit wall.

Sherlock hunched over his microscope, a cup of tea next to hand and a smile on his lips.

There were black and white prints of Sherlock fighting. His face blank, his fists smeared with dark streaks and at the ready. A close up of one of his bruises, the colours mixing like spilt paint, the sheen of sweat making them look wet to the touch.

The last of those pictures was Sherlock, his fist raised and ready, his gi pants hugging his hips low. John had printed it in black and white but spent hours painting the colours of his bruising by hand. It stood out from the rest of the series for its grittiness. John thought in that picture Sherlock looked like a dark, fallen archangel.

Then the last two.

They were John's favourites. Some of the prints were available for sale, but John wouldn't sell these. Sherlock standing under the streetlight, his face still bloody from the fight, his eyes tired and looking up to see the rain. The next was his smile, as he pulled John in for their first kiss. The whole gallery was filled with pictures, but those were the best.

"Oi, John!"

Greg and Mycroft walked towards him, more relaxed than he had ever seen either of them. John realized how much they sincerely complimented each other. Mycroft wore his usual bespoke, three piece, black pinstriped suit. His necktie was blue today instead of the usual red that John had noticed he favoured. Greg looked well rested and relaxed in a black polo shirt and khaki trousers. John noticed how easy and boyish Greg's smiled looked when he wasn't at work.

A small crowd gathered at the front of the gallery, milling around looking at the pictures from Afghanistan. They slowly dispersed as they made their way inside. They were all looking at his work, and John felt the butterflies that had lived in his stomach all day turn into pterodactyls. He stopped watching the crowd and looked back at the two men standing near him.

"Hey. Thank you for coming." John's throat felt dry and he took another sip of champagne.

"You have an artistic eye, Dr Watson." Mycroft's sharp green gaze took in each picture as he stood by his husband's side. "Excuse me; I want to get a closer look at this one." He went directly to the picture of him and Greg.

"It's not for sale; I'll give it to you after it's over," John told Greg, who was watching Mycroft talk to Sarah.

"He'll probably buy her gallery and take it home tonight," Greg said. "I'm going to tell him we own it already and save her." He smiled quickly at John and went to Mycroft's side. Sarah made her escape and John watched as the two men looked at his picture together. Greg's quiet laugh drifted over to him.

John tried to casually walk around the gallery, but couldn't stay in once place for very long. His nerves were getting the best of him as he waited for Sherlock.

His eyes kept going to the door. Each time they touched on a picture he had chosen, the memories flooded through him. He let them come.

Occasionally, someone would venture up and ask him a question about a particular piece. He answered as best he could. A lot of times he didn't know what to expect when he looked through the lense finder. It was all depended on his shutter release and luck.

The gallery was filled with milling patrons. John found a quiet corner next to a few pictures of Sherlock. His eyes traced the fine lines of his subjects face. Those dark lashes fanned across his cheeks as he slept post case. He smiled at the memory. The air around John changed, he could hear the sound of fabric rustling as someone approached. He waited, hoping it would be Sherlock's deep baritone that would fill the space between them.

"Johnny."

John closed his eyes and held his temper in check. Only two people in his life called him Johnny. That voice did not belong to his sister.

"Sebastian." He turned sharply and glared at the owner of that voice. Moran wore a well-tailored suit, something that John had never seen the man wear. Even on leave, Moran had always favoured more casual clothes. The suit was beige, with a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck. His tan stood out against the starkness of the shirt.

"I thought you had to get back." John didn't hide the annoyance that sharpened the edges of his words. He didn't school his face either. He wanted Moran to see that he wasn't welcome here tonight, after all.

"I had to see you." Sebastian reached out to smooth John's lapel.

John jerked back from the questing fingertips. "Don't touch me. I told you, I don't want to see you."

Sebastian stood close to John. The heavily astringent notes of his cologne cancelled out the slight paint and polish scent of the gallery. The crowd moved around them, not paying much attention to either of them. The men stared at each other for a long minute.

Sebastian's face, which was once so special to John, no longer held that place. When he peered into Moran's crystal blue eyes all John saw was vast nothingness. The spark of the man he had been while John served with him was gone from those cornflower orbs.

Moran finally broke the stalemate, leaning in. He kept his voice low.

"Let's go somewhere private to talk" Sebastian motioned to a door marked office.

"No. We can talk here and then you leave." John shifted his weight to his good leg and straightened his spine. He didn't want to cause a scene in front of the people who had come tonight. He mentally cursed the slight tremor in his hand and made a fist to disguise it.

"John, we go way back, you're going to throw this away on, what? This young guy?" Sebastian motioned to a picture of Sherlock holding his mini magnifying glass, looking at bricks.

"Sherlock has nothing to do with it." John crossed his arms over his chest. He scanned the room looking for his lover. He wanted Sebastian to leave before the other man showed up.

John spotted Mrs Hudson talking to Mycroft and Greg but he didn't see Sherlock with them. He stood up straighter and searched the crowd for the tall detective's Belstaff.

"Why are you so keen for John to take this job, Colonel?" A familiar deep baritone rumbled behind John. Sebastian looked up as Sherlock stepped up to stand beside John.

John did a double take.

Sherlock's hair was brushed back, the curls tamed. He wore bespoke black trousers that showed off how muscular his thighs were. John loved feeling the hidden strength in those thighs as his hands moved over them before he grabbed Sherlock's perfect arse. Sherlock looked resplendent in a black silk shirt.

But what drew all of John's attention, and made his whole body tighten with so much desire that he ached, was the crimson velvet waistcoat. It was as if Sherlock plucked the visual from his dreaming mind and had it made to tease him.

John let his arm brush up against the material and wished bitterly that he wasn't standing in a gallery filled with people, about to have a domestic with his old army buddy.

"It's none of your business." Sebastian's eyes narrowed as he looked from John to Sherlock. John hurried to hide the raw lust he felt for Sherlock, but he wasn't fast enough. Moran took a step closer invading John's personal space. Menace vibrated off Sebastian in waves and John forced himself not to back down.

"Good luck with him. We didn't call him 'Three Continents' Watson because he was into monogamy. Everyone fucked him." Moran's voice was low, meant only for Sherlock.

"Except for you. I can spot at least three tells that speak of how jealous you are that John is no longer interested in an amorous relationship with you." Sherlock's voice matched Sebastian's in tone, but it held a hint of amusement. John recognised it as the tone he used when verbally sparing with Anderson.

Sebastian tightened his jaw and his face reddened. John had never seen the colonel so angry before, not even in the middle of a fire fight.

"A relationship? John Watson doesn't do relationships. He just gets on his knees and opens his mouth for the next available prick." Sebastian shoved his finger into Sherlock's chest and that made John snap.

"Leave. Now." John grabbed Moran's hand and jerked it away from Sherlock. He felt the muscles in Moran's hand tense. Sebastian looked around the room and back at John. He took a step back and straightened his suit jacket sharply.

Mycroft and Greg strode towards them and John felt the flair of pain in his shoulder, as he relaxed a little. It really paid to have friends and family in the British government. Sebastian started to look uncomfortable. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and crossed his arms.

"Colonel Moran. Nice of you to attend Doctor Watson's art exhibit." Mycroft's words were polite, but his tone was icy. "Enjoying your stay at the Landmark? It's a lovely hotel. I noticed that a few foreign gun buyers were also staying there. I imagine someone with bonafide credentials, say, like that of a photojournalist would be able to travel much easier than just a regular, ex-army mercenary who isn't very good at his new job." Mycroft looked down his nose at Moran, his face impassive.

"Oh you bloody bastard."

John's anger rushed back to life and he trembled as the import of Mycroft's words sunk in. "You absolute cock. I can't believe you. I would never buy or sell guns. Those fuckers are the reason we lose men. Probably the reason I can't be a surgeon. You unbelievable arsehole."

"I think you better leave." Sherlock's voice cut through John's tirade, and John stepped back closer to him.

For a moment, it looked like Sebastian might turn and leave, but instead, he threw a sucker punch and caught John perfectly between his eye and cheek.

"Fuck you, Watson. You're useless, lost your fucking nerve."

John staggered back, his face throbbing. He heard an indignant squawk from Mrs Hudson and a few shocked gasps from people in the crowd. John didn't care; he was never one to back down from a fight. He charged for Moran, grabbing the white dress shirt he wore with his suit and jerked him closer.

"Lost my nerve huh?" John punched Moran as hard as he could. He could feel the agony from his shoulder springing back into full glory. The left hook didn't phase Seb, who wrestled John to the floor.

A man made a rather high pitched scream as the two men rolled into him and knocked him down. Sebastian utilised John's distraction and landed a punch to his ribs. The crowd scattered as the fight became dirtier. John felt a zing of pleasure as he landed a hit and felt Moran's lip split against his teeth.

John barely registered Greg talking loudly, and suddenly they were pulled apart. Sherlock held John, checking him over for any and all signs of trauma. Greg's hands under Moran's armpits held him in back.

"Need to have the Iceman fight your battles, or his little brother. I heard what they call Sherlock Holmes. The virgin." Moran's face was contorted with rage. His lip was smeared with blood and drool. He looked like a man unhinged.

"John, wait here." Sherlock pressed his hand to John's chest, his voice low and soothing."I'm going to help Greg escort the Colonel outside."

John squeezed his eyes closed, the pain in his shoulder just barely surpassed by the embarrassment he felt. He wanted to escape home to Baker Street and forget this whole night. He nodded to Sherlock, not trusting the quality of his voice.

A cold hand touched his cheek and he could smell fresh baked biscuits and lavender sachet.

"Dear, that is going to be a horrible black eye. What a rude man."

"Ta, Mrs H. I'm sorry you had to see that."

"Oh dear, don't be silly. That man started it." Her hand moved to the back of John's neck and he hung his head in shame nonetheless.

"Here John, I found you an ice pack in the freezer." Sarah's amused voice cut through the sounds of the crowd, who still chattered loudly. He cautiously opened his eye. The other was covered with the ice pack.

"I'm so sorry." John didn't want to look around. He felt like an absolute spectacle.

"Don't worry about it; people will come back. People will try to figure out why you got chinned. Everyone will be talking about it, and I've seen tweets about it already." She held her phone out for him to see.

"Buggery fuck." His face was frozen agony, and he was worried that Sherlock was committing murder in the alleyway next to the gallery. Thank God Mycroft was there to hide the body.

John patted Mrs Hudson on the arm and allowed her to lead him through the crowd. He held the ice pack to his face and ignored the comments and the clicking sound of someone taking a picture. Even in the midst of his public humiliation, the idea of Moran selling guns made his skin crawl and set his teeth on edge.

Once outside John looked down both sides of the street. No police car, no black sedan. No Sherlock. The cross streets in front of the gallery were empty and quiet.

"Looks like we're alone, dear. Shall we go home? Sarah said it was ok." Mrs Hudson appeared next to him.

John just nodded to her as he pulled out his phone and sent Sherlock a text.

 **Where are you?-JW**

 **Headed back to Baker Street.-JW**

Sherlock didn't respond. John considered sending a text to Greg, but in the end he just wanted to get home and take a long hot bath. Mycroft would surely be the voice of reason. Right? John shook his head, which made his face hurt and that made him angrier.

A black cab pulled up to the kerb at Mrs Hudson's wave. John tried to climb inside without hurting his shoulder and failed.

Mrs Hudson filled in the quiet with idle chit chat ranging from his show, to Mrs Turner cheating during mahjong. The ride home went by quickly.

"I know she had that tile hidden by her napkin the whole time!"

John paid the driver as the cab idled in front of 221.

"Goodnight, Mrs Hudson." He leant in and gave her a little hug and a peck on her cheek. He took another breath of her lavender sachet for strength.

"Goodnight, John. Tonight was lovely. Very exciting. I loved those pictures of Sherlock. So did he." She gently touched his cheek. "He'll be home soon."

John blinked at her and sighed. He headed up the stairs.

The nondescript black limousine picked them up immediately upon exiting the gallery. Anthea appeared with black zip ties and secured Moran's hands in front of them. She and Greg helped him into the back of the limo. Then she went back to her blackberry and slipped into the front passenger seat.

Sherlock looked around for John and hesitated a second.

"Coming brother?" Mycroft paused at the door to the limo. He stood straight, his head slightly back and his eyes flicked to the open door and back to him. Sherlock nodded and followed.

Greg and Moran sat against the back, while Sherlock and Mycroft took the seat across from them. They shared the seat but didn't touch. They communicated with eye contact and barely perceivable body movements. Neither spoke another word but held an entire conversation.

"I hate when you do that. Some of us don't read Holmes expressions." Greg cut his eyes to Moran's restrained wrists. "Are we going to the Yard?"

"No, Gregory, we're going to the office. We need something more secure."

Sherlock observed how Moran's mouth turned into a white line as he refused to speak or acknowledge them. He estimated this would not last.

"John's picture's were pretty great. Did you get to see them all, Sherlock?" Lestrade was nervous, and when he was nervous, he made idle small talk. It was a trait that both Holmeses despised.

"I think they were shit." Moran's cheek was bruised, and his shirt was covered in blood.

"Speak once more about John Watson in any capacity and I promise you will regret it." Sherlock turned his silvery eyes towards Moran slowly, letting his words sink in.

"I'm sure Watson takes it like a bitch so you can keep your honorary title. He was passed around in the army, nothing but a scared little shit. He was always looking for someone to protect him from the fight, nothing but a coward." Moran spit the last word out with a hiss.

Sherlock's mind stuttered, the blinding rage threatening to short-circuit his brain. Lestrade delivered a punch that hit Moran at an awkward angle, But still the blow sounded with a bone crunching satisfaction that Sherlock felt in his chest.

Gregory Lestrade, one of the most easy going men that Sherlock had ever known, hitting a suspect… it was too much for Sherlock to take in at once. He glanced at his brother and saw the same shock on his face.

"John is one of the bravest men I've ever met." Greg shook his right fist out, wincing. Moran held his nose, moaning as blood spurted between his fingers.

Greg smiled at the sight of his husband and brother-in-law stunned into silence. He pulled out his iPhone and took a picture. Sherlock scowled and shifted in his seat. Greg laughed and took another picture.

"Your faces! I'm printing this out and having it hung up on a wall next to John's stuff." He flashed the screen of his phone towards Sherlock. The look on his face did match Mycroft's fairly well. He would have to reflect on this at a later time and determine a way to stop that from ever happening again.

Sherlock opened his mouth just as Anthea's voice came on over the intercom.

"We've arrived, Sir."

He closed his mouth and felt his lip curl into a small but genuine smile.

"Thank you, _Greg_." He spoke it softly and meant it. Greg just nodded and looked over at Mycroft.

"See, I told you he knew my name."

Sherlock took in the entire scene before him. The two-way mirror framed it, in a way.

Moran sat at a metal table. Its gleaming surface was covered in small scratches. The kind that often happens after repeated cleanings. Even with his nose broken, his wrists handcuffed to the table, with a bright hot light over his head, Moran appeared cool and calm. His spine was ramrod straight. The posture reminded Sherlock of John for a moment and he dismissed it.

"Anthea is ready and will start in a moment. Gregory, I think you should leave." Mycroft's voice cut through Sherlock's thoughts.

"What? Why would I leave?" Lestrade looked away from the man at the table to his husband.

"Because this is not your may go south and I would not ask you to bend your ethics." The last bit came out softly. Mycroft reached out and took Lestrade's hand. He frowned at the red knuckles.

"I'm not a Detective Inspector right now, Mycroft. I'm your husband. Don't shut me out." Greg pulled his hand away and flexed it the already swelling knuckles.

The loud click of the key in the lock alerted them that Anthea was entering the room with Moran. Everyone fell silent.

"Good evening, Mr Moran. We need to have a little chat." Her voice held a note of flirty menace. She wore black slacks and a black shirt tucked in. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a tight pony tail. When she had picked them up, it was down as she usually wore it. Sherlock smirked at the absent blackberry. He couldn't remember the last time he saw her without it.

"I'm not aware of any any laws I've broken. I would like to press charges against that grey haired arsehole who broke my nose on my way out." Moran licked his lips, turned his head and spat. His eyes dragged across the mirror surface.

"It's lovely that you think you'll be leaving here today, Mr Moran, or any day."

Anthea pulled out the chair across from him and sat. She crossed her legs and allowed her boot covered foot to bounce lightly. She threaded her hands over her knee, and waited.

Moran stretched his neck from side to side, carefully regarding the woman in front of him. "I'm not going to tell you anything, and you know that."

"Oh, we have a lot of information already." She stood, grabbed the back of Moran's head, and slammed it to the table. Her eyes cut to the mirror, and Sherlock saw her blink. Anthea pushed his head back against the metal table, his face pointed away from the door. In that moment Mycroft pushed a button, and the room was filled with Moran's voice.

"It was all Jim Moriarty. All of it. It was his idea. I'll take you to where the major gun stash is located."

Sherlock could hear the modulated sounds of the recording. It was professionally done, and he was sure it could stand in court as a confession. The idea of Mycroft having the kind of power to electronically manipulate someone's voice like that made Sherlock feel a bit of awe. He quickly sniffed it and paid closer attention to the details unfolding before him.

Greg jumped as the door opened. Another woman walked in and handed Anthea a red folder. Her blonde hair tucked behind her ears and her professional yet feminine attire screamed underling. Sherlock watched her look over the room. She had obviously heard Moran's statement. She kept her eyes downcast, but she watched the scene as she hurried from the room.

Mycroft pushed the button again and they listened to Moran moan into the metal table.

Anthea sat down as the door slammed shut, the automatic locks clicking into place. She flipped through the file slowly. Sherlock watched as her eyes scanned it quickly.

"Mr Holmes, as you expected. Constance is a mole. There is evidence Moran's file has been altered." She snapped the folder shut.

"I didn't fucking say anything about Moriarty. I don't know who the fuck that is." Sebastian finally spoke up. His face a bloody mess.

"That is a lie, Mr Moran. However unimportant, we sampled your voice from your dealings at the Landmark and made our little recording." Anthea tossed the useless paperwork onto the table and checked her nails.

Moran sat back in his seat, he tilted his head back. Sherlock could not deduce his thoughts from the angle. The man appeared to be contemplating the ceiling.

A moment of emotion flashed in Mycroft's eyes, the muscles around his mouth pulled for exactly 1.3 seconds.

"You knew who he was before he landed, didn't you?" Sherlock folded his arms across his chest.

"Yes. I became aware of his connection to John when you did. I didn't expect him to be here on a recruiting mission." Mycroft straightened the cuffs of his shirt and peered at the man still shackled to the table.

"It's a dangerous game, brother mine. But the web is large and I will crush the spider who makes its nest in the middle." Mycroft paused and looked at him. Sherlock felt the conviction of his brother's words when their eyes met. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by a boisterous laugh.

"You think you're so fucking smart. Oh man. He is going to burn you all. You think you know what the score is, but you have no clue. It's going to be wonderful watching him rip your hearts out." Moran choked out another laugh. "Do me a favour Red and just shoot me. Be so much faster than what Jim will have planned, if he believes I've turned on him."

Mycroft pressed the intercom button. "Anthea, we're done here."

Anthea stood and picked up the file from the table. She tucked it under her arm and tugged her blackberry from her front pocket.

Sherlock watched the man at the table still chuckling and spitting blood onto the floor.

"Oh hey, Virgin! Tell that cunt Watson that I owe him one. I'm going to collect it out of his arse. You don't betray brothers in arms." He laughed hard and started to cough. "He'll be lucky if I get him before Jim though." He tugged on his handcuffed wrists. The metal clanged against the table, loud over the speakers.

"So, let me get this straight. This was all set up to catch a mole? You have evidence that Moran is dirty and dealing guns, you just brought him here to catch Anthea's assistant?" Greg stood still, his usual over-caffeinated energy gone. His eyes were narrow and his hands clenched into fists.

Sherlock kept that bit of information stored away for later insults. Constance had been close enough to Mycroft that Greg knew her. That was very fascinating, his brother hardly ever missed things of importance.

"Yes," Mycroft spoke evenly.

"I want to know everything. The web, and everything you have on Moriarty. If John and I are in this, I want all the facts and not the bits you deem relevant. I will call Mummy and have her raise my security clearance." Sherlock looked pointedly at Mycroft when he mentioned their mother.

Mycroft stood even straighter.

"No need. You've both been cleared on this since the moment we left the gallery. I'll have everything sent over in the morning."

Sherlock felt dismissed, but he kept his biting remarks to himself. He wanted to get home to John, not trade barbs with his insufferable brother. The revelation that Moran was working with Moriarty sent a chill down Sherlock's spine. He had heard whispers about the consulting criminal, but never anything concrete. Obviously his brother had much more information then he had and until he could see the whole picture, he wanted to protect John. He was not used to this overwhelming feeling of possessiveness. Sherlock would need to conceal these emotions from John, who would not want him to coddle him in any way.

Without another word to either Mycroft or Lestrade, Sherlock left the way he came. His steps echoed in the hallway.

John was in a daze. He hadn't sent any more texts to Sherlock, but he compulsively checked his phone in case he had missed any responses. He ambled into the bathroom and started the tub. He dumped some of Sherlock's shower gel into the steamy water. The smell immediately made John long for Sherlock to come home.

He peeled his clothes off and kicked them into the corner of the loo. His whole body felt like a roadmap of pain. The bruising around his eye was bad and he knew it would worsen as he slept. He couldn't believe that wanker sucker punched him.

John turned the water off as the bathroom filled with fragrant steam.

He picked up his iPod and selected Sting to listen to while he soaked. He wanted something mellow. He looked at his phone one last time but there was still no text from Sherlock. John felt a surge of nervous energy and left the humid room to get a beer from the fridge. The cold air caused goosebumps to rise all over his skin. John felt a little decadent walking around the flat in the nude.

The sight of Sherlock's microscope brought him again to mind. He debated calling and leaving a voicemail. He worried his bottom lip, wondering if he should text Greg and see if he had any better luck reaching them.

The flat was too quiet and empty. With a frustrated growl, John left his phone on the kitchen table and went back into the bathroom. He put his beer on the floor next to the tub and carefully climbed in, minding his shoulder as he did so. He felt a sharp sting on both his knees as the water touched them. New pain to add to the symphony that was already in process. The water was almost too hot, but it felt wonderful. John let out a small moan of appreciation.

He slipped underwater and stayed there for a moment. The stillness helped sooth his nerves.

He slowly sat up and laid a wet flannel across his eyes. His hand searched for his beer, almost knocking it over as he grazed over it. He took a long pull on it and rested his arms along the rim of the tub, softly clinking his bottle against the porcelain in time with the music.

John lost track of time. His body slowly relaxed, and he hummed along with the music.

"I like this song. The words."

John jumped, yanking the flannel from his face. He opened one eye slowly, the other was already swollen shut, and looked at the man who sat on the closed lid of the toilet.

Sherlock still had the velvet waistcoat on, except it was unbuttoned. He rested his elbows on his knees and leant forward towards John. His hair was slightly messed up, a few curls escaping from the grip of the product he'd used.

"The song is called Shape Of My Heart, by Sting." John took a drink and then held the beer out to Sherlock. "Put it on the counter for me, please." He motioned towards the sink.

"You're upset?" Sherlock took the bottle and sipped. John fought the urge to laugh to laugh at his resulting grimace. He tilted his head. "I don't understand why you're upset."

He pulled the waistcoat off and folded it, then he started to unbutton his shirt.

"You left and didn't answer my texts. I had no idea where you were." John let some water out and restarted the hot.

"My brother felt it prudent to escort Moran to his office for questioning. I accompanied them." Sherlock peeled his black shirt off and tossed it towards John's pile of clothes.

"What? Why didn't you take him to the Met?" John made a fist. Pain shot across his knuckles, travelled up his arm, and nestled into his shoulder. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "What did Moran say?"

"I'll tell you everything tomorrow, when I know more. Mycroft is sending over some information. Are you ok?"

"Oh, I'm all right." John slid forward in the tub, the water sloshing against the sides. "Are you getting in?"

"I had hoped you'd be amenable." Sherlock undid the button to his trousers and pushed them down until he could kick them to the side. He smirked at John and bent over to retrieve something from his pocket. Sherlock held it in his fist.

"Your ribs still look like shite. How are they feeling?" John's eye travelled along Sherlock's bruised ribs. He could see where the stark hues were fading to a more sickly green.

"They look worse than they feel." He stepped into the tub behind John and folded himself down. Sherlock's skin felt like cool silk as it slid against John's. He stayed leaning forward as Sherlock positioned himself as best he could. His long legs were a bit of problem. John let out more water so it wouldn't overflow.

"I'm glad this is one of those old bathtubs with extra room." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

John turned the hot water back on for another moment. "Too hot?"

"No, I like it scalding. Lean back."

John leant back against Sherlock's chest. He fit perfectly. He tried to be careful of Sherlock's ribs, but his body melted into the chiselled chest. He was enveloped by the scent and feel of Sherlock. For the first time all night, John felt at ease. This is not how he pictured the end of the evening, but it was exactly what he needed.

"I had something made for you."

Sherlock slid his left hand down John's wet arm until he came to his wrist. He pulled it up and slipped a braided leather bracelet onto it. "It's been waterproofed. I know we get into all kinds of things with The Work." He spoke the last matter of factly. Sherlock let go of John's wrist and wrapped his arms around him. John snuggled back into him further.

"Sherlock… It's wonderful." He looked it over carefully, the brown leather was soft and well worked. It was wrapped around a piece of blue glass. "Is this from that Tiffany Glass lampshade?" That case felt like a lifetime ago to John.

"Yes. I liked that shade of blue. It made me think of your eyes. At first, I kept it for that reason, but then I thought of this." Sherlock touched the surface of the glass with his fingertip and then kissed John's neck.

"I love that you made me a gift from a murder weapon. That is so strange and yet so us." John splashed Sherlock playfully, but his shoulder was still sore.

"You're very tense, John." Sherlock cupped water, brought it up to John's bad shoulder, and poured it over his skin. The warmth of the water on his sore muscles made John moan.

Sherlock traced John's scar gently. He placed a little kiss over a pinkish knot of scar tissue. Normally, John didn't feel much there, but Sherlock's lips pressing against it made heat rush to John's groin.

"It's been a long night."

John closed his eye and eased back against Sherlock. Behind him, Sherlock relaxed as well. For a moment John thought about turning this into something more, he felt Sherlock's soft cock press against him, but he was exhausted. Right now he just wanted to be exactly where he was.

"I enjoyed your photographs." Sherlock's tickling breath made the small hairs on John's neck stand up.

"Did you get to see any of them?"

"I saw them all. You like taking pictures of me when I'm not looking." Sherlock placed a teasing bite on John's neck.

"Apparently you enjoy snapping when I'm asleep." Another little bite, this one harder to show his mock annoyance.

"It's the only time you're actually still. My Nikon doesn't have autofocus, it's easier when you're asleep." John wiggled against Sherlock's lap.

"Maybe you can pose for me, so I don't have to sneak up on you." John's cheeks heated as he imagined taking pictures of Sherlock right now. "You know, like when you look like this."

"Nude and in the bath?" John could feel Sherlock's voice rumbling against his back.

"Well, yeah." John fought the urge to submerge himself. He licked his lips and turned his head to look up at Sherlock. He wanted to see if Sherlock liked the idea or if he was teasing him.

"Get your camera. I'm not shy. I would rather these pictures not go up on a wall in a gallery, but I'd like to see them on paper." Sherlock dropped a reassuring kiss against John's hair.

John wanted to, the mental visual of Sherlock posing for him naked and in the bath went straight to his cock. He could feel it slowly start to harden. His body told him another story. Everything hurt and the idea of getting out of the bath right that moment was too much to bear.

"Maybe another night. I'd rather just sit here with you and enjoy the peace and quiet." John picked up Sherlock's hand, slid his fingers between Sherlock's, and laid them both on his chest. The bracelet rested close to his heart, the little blue piece of glass warmed by the water and John's body heat. John traced it with his other hand.

"I'm not very good with relationships, John. Nor am I good at sentiment. But I want you to know I want this. I'm sorry I left you behind. I won't promise never to do it again, because I will. Always remember I do not forget you, I'm just…"

"You're just brilliant." John picked up their joined hands and kissed Sherlock's knuckles. "What kind of information will Mycroft drop off tomorrow? The arms dealing? I still can't believe that wanker"

Sherlock traced the length of his neck, from collar bone to jaw line, with his fingertips.

"I believe yes, but there is more. There is another man involved, his name is Jim Moriarty. He's built himself quite a criminal empire and I know Mycroft wishes to dismantle it. We'll look at it together. Mycroft is up to something, and I'll know more when I see the data."

John turned over and gingerly knelt between Sherlock's legs, his knees stinging a little. He leant forward and kissed Sherlock deeply. His mouth tasted of the beer and something else that was just all Sherlock. He moaned against Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's hands slowly stroked up the length of John's back and John settled so he was laying against Sherlock's chest. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but he wanted it for however long he could stand it.

"We really should exit the bath and resume this in bed." Sherlock's voice sounded different when John had his head resting against his chest.

"Alright. Let's go to bed." John placed a kiss on Sherlock's chest, right over his heart.

"Sentiment." Sherlock brushed John's wet hair back off his forehead.

John smiled and laughed against Sherlock's wet skin.

"We should go back to the gallery tomorrow. I'd like you to tell me about the photographs you took in Afghanistan." Sherlock's voice was low, and John found himself lulled by it.

"I never foresaw this when I returned to London, you know."

When he first moved into that grim bedsit, he'd hated it. But now he thought of it fondly, remembering how Sherlock filled up the small space with his limitless energy. "Think it's too late to call for curry?" John turned his head and looked up at Sherlock.

"You're thinking of the night we met… I think I can arrange a delivery." Sherlock's hands slid up his sides and across his back.

"You're going to have to start taking new pictures for your next show."

"Mmmphh. Not thinking about it, I need curry and sleep. Like our first night together, only I can do what I wanted back then." John pushed away from Sherlock to climb out of the tub.

Leaving the water made gravity feel much heavier. Both of his legs tingled as circulation started to flow again. John grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his waist.

Sherlock unfolded his legs, his feet sticking out of the water. He let his head hang back over the rim of the tub and John couldn't resist kissing him. He leant down and captured those perfect lips with his.

"I'm glad this is where we ended up, John." Sherlock raised his hand and lightly traced over John's eyes. He closed them and savoured the sensation of those calloused fingertips. "I value how you see things. You are now very much a part of My Work."

John opened his eyes and blinked them clear. Sherlock was looking at him so openly, his eyes and face relaxed, and John saw the unguarded happiness.

"I love you too." John smiled at Sherlock. An answering smile that held nothing back. He let Sherlock see the truth in what he said.

"Yes, well, of course, John. Sentiment. Please hand me my towel. The grey one, your towels are scratchy." Sherlock pulled away and stood up gracefully.

John laughed under his breath and threw a grey towel at Sherlock's head and left the bathroom.

"Sentiment JOHN! SENTIMENT!"

John pulled his towel off and dried himself, listening to Sherlock move around the loo. He knew that something big was coming, he could feel in the pit of his stomach. The nervous feeling he recognised from quiet moments waiting for the wounded to come while he was in Afghanistan.

Whatever was coming, John would do anything to protect this. He felt himself slipping into Captain Watson mode again, only this time he felt more focused. The war had been for a greater good, but this was for much more personal.

He pushed those feelings away; that would all unfold tomorrow when Mycroft came. Tonight all he wanted was Sherlock.


End file.
